


So Eden Sank to Grief

by DolBlathanna



Series: Promises to Keep [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Book Spoilers, But like a sad road trip, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Leshens (The Witcher), M/M, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Road Trips, Romance, Scoia'tael (The Witcher), Slow Burn Romance, Trauma, Velen - Freeform, Where everyone's angsty and they're in Velen and it sucks, oh boy are there book spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 174,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolBlathanna/pseuds/DolBlathanna
Summary: The quest to save Geralt brings Yennefer, Regis and Ameer to the wild and strange lands of Velen. Here, in these swamps fraught with dangers, they will be pushed to their emotional limits as they face monsters, cults, and their own darkest inner demons.A story following the canon of the Witcher book series and game series, set one year after the events of Blood and Wine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Promises to Keep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676911
Comments: 99
Kudos: 268





	1. Departing Novigrad; Arrivals in Velen

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait! It took a little longer than I anticipated for this Part to be ready to upload. I hope everyone is doing well and keeping safe in these times. 
> 
> A reminder of the important game decisions that are canon in this story:  
> Geralt romances Yennefer  
> Ciri defeats the White Frost and becomes a witcheress  
> Nilfgaard wins the war; Temeria gains independence  
> Hearts of Stone – Geralt saves Olgierd and banishes Gaunter O’Dimm  
> Blood and Wine – ribbon ending - Dettlaff dies, Syanna lives
> 
> I understand that Part 1 is a pretty long fic at 23 chapters, so don't worry about forgetting any important details - I make sure to briefly cover them in this chapter. This story also contains a lot of travelling, so if you're ever confused about location, I'd recommend the Witcher 3 Interactive Map.  
> Thanks for returning and I hope you enjoy!

_“The land of Velen, located in western Temeria with its capital in Gors Velen, is one of the poorest provinces in the kingdom. Its territory encompasses the isle of Thanedd, home to the famous magic academy, which, along with Gors Velen, constitutes the commercial and developmental mainspring of the entire province. Velen is a stop on the Novigrad trade route running through Cidaris, Vergen, Brugge, Cintra and other such southerly realms._

_Veleners subside primarily on agriculture, crafting and animal husbandry. The province is practically deprived of all natural resources. It contains a great deal of forests, wetlands and cultivated woods, though the greatest part of it is covered in swamps and bogs.” – Lands of the North: Velen._

They leave for Velen the next day.

Despite an evening of drunken foolery last night, Yennefer wakes up relatively fresh and without a pounding headache. Thank goodness. Her mind is too crowded with thoughts to afford being hungover – planning and preparation for their journey into Velen, thoughts of the ominous Crone, the Fox Mother’s message and the blue crystal hanging around her neck.

She’s glad for her lack of hangover now as she stands on a stool, her arms out, as a tailor busies himself with stitching and adjustments to her clothes. To her right, Ameer browses the vast collection of clothes, marvelling at their detailed embroidery. Unlike their rather nauseous and hungover companions from the Chameleon, he’s been entirely cheerful today and only a little photosensitive.

“Almost done.” The tailor is an elf by the name of Elihal. He’s obviously a very thorough and skilled professional – Dandelion, who remained in bed looking nauseous and holding a pouch of ice to his throbbing forehead, recommended him. However, Yennefer can’t help but bite back her frustration as she waits for Elihal to finish. Thoroughness also means slowness, and the last thing she wants to do is waste time.

It's been 18 days since Geralt was poisoned in Skellige. A monster contract turned out to be a trap, and Geralt was attacked by a jarl called Carrik thanks to his involvement in Skelligan politics four years ago. The dagger that wounded him was poisoned – if not for Ameer, an old friend of Yennefer’s who had been trapped in slavery by Carrik for a year, Geralt would’ve died out in the wilds.

But she, Ameer and Regis failed to find any cure. Geralt’s only hope was the strange and ancient spell of Scaradh. His soul now lies in his own witcher medallion, hanging around Ameer’s neck, while his body is frozen back in Skellige. They have two months to find Tye, the mysterious man responsible for supplying the poison, and find out the cure from him. But should the time limit run out, or should the medallion break, then Geralt’s soul will be lost forever.

Tracking down Tye’s movements in Novigrad was difficult enough. Yennefer, Regis and Ameer had to involve themselves in the world of drug smuggling and solve a murder that Dandelion and Zoltan were being framed for. After finally putting the matter to rest, and battling a giant crystal golem in the process, Regis discovered that Tye had fled south to Velen, where he wishes to find the final Crone of Crookback Bog.

Why Tye wants to find her, they don’t know. Why he supplied the poison that felled Geralt, they don’t know. His motivations, his background, even his real name – everything about Tye is shrouded in mystery. All they know is that he has a scar on his forehead that he conceals with a red cloth, and that he’s potentially a mage from Kaedwen. 

But none of that matters. All that matters is finding him, and interrogating the cure for the poison out of him. The more time they waste here, the longer Tye has to go and search for the Crone. Yennefer doesn’t know much about the Crone, but what she does know is that this being is extremely powerful and malicious. If they don’t manage to catch Tye before he finds the Crone, he might end up getting killed by the monster. And if he doesn’t, then they will have to find the Crone and ask her directly about Tye – not a task Yennefer looks forwards to. So being here, standing on a stool as a tailor hovers around her, is infuriating. Yennefer can imagine Tye getting further and further away, disappearing into the swamps without a trace…

At last, Elihal steps backwards with a satisfied nod. “There. Perfect.”

Lowering her aching arms, Yennefer steps down from the stool and looks in the mirror. She’s opted for a black top made from finely woven wool, with quilted white beaded patterns on the bodice, tied in place with white ribbons and with white ruffles by the shoulders. The black sleeves have silver lily embroidery around the hems. It covers a long-sleeved under-top made from woven sedge. Likewise, underneath her black trousers she wears inner leggings of duck skin, with the downy feathers facing her skin. Her new boots are rather blunt and ugly, but they’ll be perfect for trekking through Velen’s swampy fields. Her expensive, fancy footwear wouldn’t last a minute in the bogs.

“Many of my customers here are Nilfgaardian.” Indeed, many of Elihal’s displayed outfits are Nilfgaardian in fashion, with dark colours and sun embroidery or metal work. “At such short notice, I had to take one of Nilfgaardian design. But don’t worry, I chose one that’ll most certainly keep you warm. And I removed all Nilfgaardian traces on the sleeves.”

“That’s most certainly a wise choice.” Velen suffered terribly at the hands of Nilfgaardians four years ago. Temeria might be a vassal state now, but she’s sure that bitterness hasn’t disappeared completely.

“Luckily, I had some lily embroidery to attach on instead. Very Temerian-like, don’t you think?” Elihal points to the cuffs, where white lilies are delicately sewn on. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard news from Velen, but from what I understand, its Temerian and Nilfgaardian overlords are quite keen to renovate the area. It’s a useful route up to Novigrad, you see. Even so, the people of Velen are apparently still rather untrusting of Nilfgaardians. Who can blame them?”

“You seem to be well informed about Velen.” Yennefer points out.

“Like I said, many of my customers are Nilfgaardian. Right in the south of Velen, where some old Nilfgaardian barracks used to be, they’ve built up quite a posh little town. It’s certainly the wealthiest part of Velen, no doubt because it’s right on the edge and near a popular route to Vizima. It’s called Lettina. Unfortunately, Lettina’s tailor facilities are somewhat lacking, so when the citizens go on trips to Novigrad, they practically buy out my shop.” He points to Yennefer’s legs. “That’s why I know what clothes you need to keep warm and dry – duck feather leggings, for example, or your sedge undergarments. Loose layers are vital in Velen; they keep you warmer, and are easier to remove when the outer ones get inevitably wet. Wool is wonderfully water resistant and dries quickly, too. All this is necessary for travelling to Velen, though such functional clothes can often look dreary and uninspired.” He smiles. “ _That’s_ why I’ve been rather popular. I know how to strike the balance.”

That’s true – Yennefer had resigned herself to wearing much uglier clothes for this trip. No wonder Elihal is so popular. His shop reflects that, with its piles of commissioned outfits, regal decorations and tall, polished mirrors. Though Yennefer wonders what it looked like before Radovid was assassinated. Most likely far less extravagant, and if not for his timely death, it probably would’ve been attacked and burnt down eventually.

“Since you’re a mage, you’ll need gloves – don’t want your fingers falling off with frostbite or gangrene. Obviously, I’d recommend more black. These should suit you well.” He passes her a pair of black mink fur gloves. “As for a coat…” He examines her outfit again, then clicks his fingers and hurries into his back store. He returns carrying a long, elegant coat made from a fur that Yennefer doesn’t recognise. It’s silver in colour, with black speckled patterns across the shimmering hairs. The hems are decorated with soft black furs. “One day, a young woman with ashen hair came to my store looking for her clothes to be fixed. She told me she’d travelled to the Far North on her adventures, and told me about how they often use sealskin and fur in their clothing there.” Ciri, Yennefer thinks with a painful twinge of melancholy. She must’ve teleported there at some point in her adventures, before all this horrible mess occurred. Yennefer misses her. A lot. “And that intrigued me greatly. Since the north is on much better terms with Skellige, thanks to Queen Cerys being in charge and Nilfgaard temporarily dropping its crusade to rule the islands, I was able to trade and get my hands on some seal pelts. Sadly, the fashion has yet to catch on here, but I think this would serve you well. It’s very warm, but also withstands the wet and damp very easily.”

She takes it from him. “This’ll do very nicely. Thank you.”

“Now, for your friend – I have something that will work very well.” Elihal scoops up some clothes, including more duck feather inner leggings and a blouse of finely woven sedge to be worn close to the skin, then pushes Ameer into the changing room. 

Fortunately for Yennefer, who prepares herself for another long wait, the door to the shop opens. A rather ill-looking Priscilla enters, walking slowly, her eyes squinting from the light outside.

“Hello, Yennefer.” With a grimace, she sits down, massaging her forehead. “Your new clothes look very nice.”

“Thank you.” Speaking to Priscilla will at least stop her from getting impatient enough to dash off and chase Tye. “Are you feeling all right?” 

Priscilla nods gingerly, trying to smile through her headache. “It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. I should’ve been smart like you.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make. And I’ve had _many_ years more experience than you.” Yennefer smiles.

“Regis gave me some herby, odd-tasting concoction to ease my headache. I’m just waiting for it to kick in.”

“Where is Regis?” He, Priscilla and a slightly hungover Zoltan had set off earlier in the morning to run some errands around the city.

“He’s gone herb picking. Zoltan went to sort out a mule for him. I still have a few more errands to run, though.” Priscilla explains with a huge amount of regret in her voice. “I have some buttons to get mended, and then there’s someone I need to meet near the docks.”

“Speaking of the docks, did you manage to find out any more about if the docks are open in Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asks. It was the task she had set for Priscilla that morning.

“They’re closed, unfortunately. After all that golem business, there have been some damages to the city as well as the surrounding area. The Nilfgaardians want to stop people from raiding the ruined areas and smuggling the goods away. Until repairs get fully underway, the ports are all closed.”

“I see.” Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. Damn it. Getting a boat and travelling from Oxenfurt and down the Pontar river, stopping close to the orphanage and staking out Tye there, would’ve been the easiest way to intercept him. Now, they’ll have to traipse directly through all of Velen, hoping they can beat him to the orphanage and catch him. This is not ideal – and means they’ll need a lot more provisions than Yennefer originally planned.

Fortunately, Elihal doesn’t take as long with Ameer’s clothes as he did with Yennefer’s, and it isn’t long until he emerges again from the changing room. He wears a finely woven green woollen tunic with a deep neck cut and a leather belt around the waist. The hems of the sleeves and neckline are the deep blue of the Temerian flag, and white lilies are delicately embroidered along them. He keeps his fur rimmed boots from Skellige and the raven-feathered cloak that Cerys gifted him. However, Elihal shakes his head as he examines the feathers.

“This cloak is splendid.” He runs his hand over the glossy feathers admiringly. “So you absolutely must not wear it into Velen. Long feathers like these are very difficult to clean when they’re dirty.”

Ameer carefully takes off the cloak. “I did not think of that – I definitely do not want this to get ruined.” He treasures that cloak greatly; alongside the antler-bone knife with its carved dragons on the hilt, it was one of the first possessions he got after his year in slavery.

“I have another cloak I think will go nicely instead.” Elihal passes him a pine green cloak with orange fur at the collar and around the rim of the hood. The lapels are beautifully decorated with woodland embroidery: branches, sycamore and oak leaves, acorns, and dogwood roses twine up and down. A delicate bone pin clasps the cloak together. “This is far easier to clean – and emphasises your elven roots,” he adds with a wink.

Ameer hovers his hand over the orange fur, looking concerned. “Is this…fox?” Being a Fox Mother – or almost a Fox Mother, anyway – it’s the one fur he has always refused to wear.

“Oh, no, it’s squirrel.” Elihal corrects him, much to Ameer’s relief. “Don’t worry about the whole Scoia’tael connotations, though – squirrel fur is back in fashion among elves now. I’m afraid the Squirrels are somewhat of a dying breed now.”

Yennefer frowns. This is the first she’s heard of that. “Why is that?”

“Well, the ban on former Scoia’tael units returning to Dol Blathanna has been lifted. It was the king of Aedirn who imposed that rule, and he’s gone now. It took some convincing from Francesca Findabair, but since the Scoia’tael have helped Nilfgaard in the past, Emperor Emhyr decided it would be in his best interest to allow the Scoia’tael to return to Dol Blathanna. After all, they’d be fighting against his lands now. With his sole heir vanished, the last thing he wants is more angry guerrilla fighters.”

“I find it hard to believe everyone just gave up fighting. Dol Blathanna is large and fertile, but it’s still nothing in comparison to the amount of land elves used to have.” Yennefer remarks. And the Scoia’tael are determined fighters – even when the odds have been stacked infinitely against them, they never give up.

“Oh, there are certainly those continuing to fight. The Scoia’tael have been screwed over many times before. In fact, we’ve had all sorts of treaties betrayed and promises broken in our race’s past.” Elihal says with a hint of bitterness. “They won’t trust this new arrangement. And there are those who still think the deal is unfair, and that more land should be given. But many of them are tired. The Scoia’tael have been fighting a losing battle for years now. If they couldn’t beat the northern forces, they certainly won’t beat the Nilfgaardians. At some point, people get tired. They want to start a real life for themselves. For those fighters who’ve etched out a meagre existence in the forests, constantly at risk of being slaughtered by Redanians or Temerians or Nilfgaardians, Dol Blathanna seems rather enticing.”

“What about you?” Yennefer asks.

Elihal smiles dryly. “True, living in Dol Blathanna would have its benefits. But this is my home. This is where I’ve always lived, and I’ve no intention of moving now. My business is thriving perfectly well, after all. I have a good life here.”

“Well, I’m glad. After all, if you’d moved to Dol Blathanna, we wouldn’t have been able to buy these marvellous clothes.”

Fortunately, the clothes in question aren’t too expensive – being friends of Dandelion, Elihal gives them a discount. Using his share of the reward for defeating the giant golem, Ameer is more than happy to pay, delighted at being able to finally spend his own money. Yennefer is pleased. These last few weeks have been exceedingly difficult for him; being trapped in slavery for a year, tormented by cruel men, has certainly taken a mental toll on him. It’s taken a while for him to regain his confidence, and open up about his troubles to Yennefer and Regis. But his confidence is growing once more, and today he seems particularly happy. No wonder. He was reunited with his Fox Mother last night. Though, he has no idea that Yennefer also met his Mother. She still hasn’t told him.

“Good luck with your journey. And if you’re ever in need of more clothing, make sure to give me another visit.”

Outside, the weather of Novigrad is brisk and sharp. The last of the sunrise’s pink and purple hues retreat from the sky as the autumn sun gently wakes up the bustling city. Night-time frost melts away, leaving the cobbles damp underfoot. The coastal wind refreshes Yennefer, washing away any remaining tiredness or grogginess from the party last night, allowing her mind to be more alert as she decides which provisions to buy, and in which order. She feels overwhelmingly agitated, fuelled by her desperation to find Tye. But entering into Velen without the necessary preparation would be extremely foolish. The previous no-man’s land is fraught with dangers, both in the form of monsters and the hazardous environmental conditions. There’s no point chasing after Tye if they end up drowning in a swamp, freezing to death or starving in the process. Thorough preparation is needed, including the clothing she’s just bought.

As they walk, the day begins to truly wake up. The streets become more crowded, bustling with activity more than normal. After the giant golem incident yesterday, people seem especially eager to conduct their businesses, gossip about everything that happened. Brushes with death and disaster often have this effect, even though the golem didn’t reach Novigrad. Although she’s sure the Nilfgaardians have tried hard to contain the news of how the golem was defeated, mainly that they themselves were not responsible for its demise, Yennefer hears people whispering about her as she walks past. For once, such whispers aren’t about how she’s a wretched sorceress or other negative name-callings owing to her profession. And she has to admit, she doesn’t mind hearing praise for once in a while.

She isn’t the only one getting stares – several women pause to watch Ameer as he passes. He walks eagerly ahead of her and Priscilla, humming that tune he likes as he curiously looks between the shops. Passing women whisper to each other, and when Ameer glances over to them, they giggle and wave shyly. Ameer gives them an amused wave back, much to their delight. Yennefer isn’t surprised. Ameer has always had a very striking appearance, with the same elvish beauty as his northern brethren. Now that his confidence has returned, and that he doesn’t hide his face by raising his hood and staring down at the ground, that attractiveness has only become more pronounced.

“Tell me, Priscilla. Have you visited Velen much recently?” She asks as they walk.

“No, not really. It’s not exactly known for its affluence and prosperity. More for death, plague, war-torn violence and famine.” Priscilla comments.

“What Elihal said about the area being renovated – is that true?”

“From what I’ve heard, yes. Lettina is a very wealthy town, almost as wealthy as Gors Velen. But most of Velen still has a long way to go. From what I’ve heard, bodies don’t hang from nooses on every other tree anymore, and fields aren’t littered with corpses and necrophages. But I assume renovating such a swamp land will be difficult.”

It won’t just be the swampy terrain getting in the way of renovation, Yennefer thinks. The monsters certainly won’t help, including the likes of the Crone.

“That’s just from what I’ve heard, though.” Priscilla continues. “Needless to say, I haven’t really visited the area before.”

Honestly, Yennefer isn’t particularly familiar with the region herself. She hasn’t actually visited the realm herself, now that she thinks about it; only heard vivid stories from Ciri and Geralt. It seems she’ll be entering this region blind.

At last, they the streets near the ports, on the west side of the city, where seagulls wheel above the waves and passengers leave their ships. However, Priscilla has no interest in the docks. Instead, she knocks at the door of a small house. The sign shows a sword surrounded by glowing stones. A black smith’s, perhaps? Outside the front of the shop, wild orchids are being grown. An impressive feat. Wild orchids, though their roots are nutritious and used in potions, are difficult to ‘domesticate’.

The door opens, and Priscilla smiles. “Hadji! Hello!”

In the door way stands a bearded man. He wears a fine orange tunic, embroidered in a style very different to what Yennefer normally sees, and a black turban on his head. He looks Ofieri.

Beside her, Ameer stiffens. He says nothing. With a jolt, Yennefer remembers her conversation with the Fox Mother.

_“The people of Ofier know about him, don’t they? His identity was discovered.”_

_“…Yes.”_

Well, shit. In his homeland, the secret of his Fox Mother status was revealed. He was cast out, forced to flee. How far did that news travel? About Ameer, the aguara?

The man beams, oblivious to Ameer’s concern. “Ah, Priscilla! Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation! What brings you here today?”

“Is Dulla in? I have those papers to give him.”

“I shall tell him to come down. Do, come in!” He looks at Yennefer and Ameer. “And who might these be?”

“This is Yennefer, a friend of ours at the Chameleon.” Priscilla introduces her. “And this is Ameer.”

“Ah!” The man begins speaking quickly in a language Yennefer doesn’t understand: Ofieri. Ameer smiles pleasantly, but Yennefer can see the nervousness behind his eyes as he replies.

“Ah, I am being rude. My name is Hadji al-Attar, and I am a runewright here in Novigrad. Please, come in. I shall fetch Dulla.”

The inside of the house is warm and cluttered. On almost every surface, Yennefer can see small stones and metal tools along with an occasional sword here and there. These must be materials for his runewright business. On the wall hangs a golden flag decorated with a blue horse. The Ofieri flag. From the kitchen, Yennefer can smell spices she vaguely recognises. When she met Ameer in Nilfgaard, he told her such spices were a staple of Ofieri cuisine, and had brought some with him. She had tried some herself – some were much hotter than others, at times too hot for her tongue, but each one was bursting with flavour. So much so, the Nilfgaardian food tasted rather bland in comparison.

“So, Ameer, what brings you to Novigrad?” Hadji asks.

“Well, I will not be staying long. You see, we are travelling to Velen today.”

“You are going to Velen?” For some reason, he looks pleased. “Let me fetch Dulla.”

The runewright leaves, and Ameer breathes out. He’s standing nervously in the corner of the room, trying very hard to ignore the Ofieri flag on the wall. When the man returns, though, he straightens up and tries to look cheery.

“Oh, Priscilla!” The man who joins Hadji dons a brown tunic decorated with black and gold swirling patterns along the buttons, and wears a blue turban on his head. He shakes her hand warmly. “Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation! What brings you here today?”

“These are the travel papers you wanted. We get soldiers among our regulars at the Chameleon,” she explains to Yennefer and Ameer, “so I managed to get them at a cheaper price than normal.”

“Thank you greatly. Here, this should cover the cost.” He passes her some coins, then looks over at Yennefer and Ameer. “I see we have guests. My name is Dulla kh’Amanni. Who might you be?”

“My name is Yennefer, I’m a friend of Priscilla’s. And this is Ameer.”

“Oh! You are from Ofier?”

“Naem. Tahiati, walthana' ealaa alealam fi khalaqah aldhy la yantahi.” Ameer replies in his native tongue.

“Ma aldhy ja' bik 'iilaa alshamal?”

“Kunt 'aqwam biziarat sadiqiin Yennefer.” She hears her own name. “'ana 'usaeiduha fi aleaml.”

“I see. Well, I am most glad the papers arrived in time,” Dulla switches back to Common, “for I am planning to leave today.”

“You’re leaving? Where to?” Yennefer asks.

“Toussaint, to their capital city Beauclair. Tales of our wares have reached that land, and we were invited to go there and spread our knowledge.” Dulla explains.

“Hadji, are you going too?”

“I am afraid not. Travelling here was a treacherous journey – our ship sank, I lost my tools and we were attacked by bandits – so I have been…put off by such long journeys. Besides, our runewright business is doing very well here, and I am in the middle of doing some experiments. No, I shall let Dulla present the wares, I think. Which reminds me, Dulla, these people are going to Velen.”

Dulla’s face lights up. “Oh, you are going to Velen? I am travelling there too!”

Yennefer smiles, though she can sense Ameer’s frustration at revealing this information prematurely. Is that so? Why are you travelling to Velen?”

“You see, I am wanting to go to a ferry station in the east of Velen, just south of Oxenfurt. From there, I will travel by boat to Lettina and continue my journey to Toussaint. But this giant golem incident has destroyed a lot of houses in those areas, so the Nilfgaardians have closed off the roads around Oxenfurt, to try and stop people stealing from the ruins, you see. And so, I must change my path to travel through Velen. Not something I was particularly looking forwards to.”

“Normally, we would have our friend escort us.” Hadji continues. “He has helped us in the past before – he saved us from a monster attack when we were escorting our cargo to Novigrad, then dealt with the thugs that tried to swindle us in the city. And he did all that for practically nothing! The problem is, he is always travelling around the north, so we have no real way of getting in contact with him.”

“I was afraid this meant I would have to travel alone. But since you are going there too, perhaps we might travel together?” Dulla suggests hopefully. “It will be less dangerous to travel in a group, I think.”

Yennefer glances at Ameer, who forces a smile. This is the very opposite of what he wanted, clearly. But he nods. It would be more suspicious to refuse.

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Do you agree, Yennefer?”

“Well, we’ll be travelling much further into Velen, but I don’t see why we can’t accompany you to the ferry station. When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Today. I was ready to leave yesterday, actually, but the Oxenfurt closures changed that.”

“We’ll be leaving shortly too. Why don’t we meet outside the Gate of the Hierarch in two hours?”

He smiles, relieved. “Yes, excellent. I feel much better going on this journey now. Thank you!”

When they leave, Ameer exhales in relief. He looks considerably more downcast than when they first set out.

“Is everything all right?” Priscilla asks, concerned. “Did I make you uncomfortable bringing you there? I’m ever so sorry if I did.”

“Everything is fine.” He smiles. “Please, do not worry. You were not to know.”

“Do you think you’ll be all right?” Yennefer asks. “With someone from Ofier travelling with us?”

“It will be fine. He will not be with us for the whole journey, correct? Besides, he is only a merchant. If worse truly came to worst, I could just run away.” He reassures her. Coming across other people from Ofier might be a shock, but it was bound to happen eventually. Besides, perhaps he will enjoy speaking to someone from his hometown once the shock and unease has worn off.

When they return to the Chameleon, Yennefer is surprised to see Dandelion waiting for them, awake and looking unexpectedly in good health. He’s sitting at the table, writing letters, but stops when they arrive. “Ah, you’re back. Excellent.”

“You look much better.” Priscilla remarks.

“Well, Regis gave me a weird tasting herbal remedy, so I’m feeling right as rain now.” He explains. “Now we just need to wait for Zoltan.” Why, he doesn’t explain, and continues writing his letters.

“Where is Regis?” Yennefer asks.

“He’s in the stables, readying your steeds.” Dandelion frowns. “I don’t recognise those horses. Did you steal them?”

“No, we were…gifted them.” By Ameer’s Fox Mother, who bewitched and stole them. Yennefer doesn’t say that, though. “Ameer, you should make sure you’re fully packed. I’ll go speak with Regis in the meantime.”

“Yes, I shall. And I will pack our new provisions, too.” Good. Yennefer touches the crystal underneath her clothes. She needs to speak with Regis privately.

Just as Dandelion said, she finds Regis in the stables. He’s securing the saddles and bags on the horses, including the black mare and yellow dun that the Fox Mother bewitched. They seem uneasy at his presence, pawing the ground and tossing their heads with wide eyes as he moves around them. He himself has no fear at their behaviour, though, since no one’s around to see. Besides, even if one tried to kick him, it wouldn’t do much harm.

Not all of the animals here are horses, though. Yennefer notices a mule standing right at the edge. Unlike the horses, it’s entirely calm in Regis’s presence.

“Do you need any help?” She asks, patting the neck of the black mare. It whinnies, nosing her hand affectionately.

“No, no. I’m almost done.” Regis smiles. “Your shopping trip was a success, then?”

“Yes, it was.” She looks down at her boots. “Not the prettiest, but they’ll do the trick.”

“Nonsense. You look very nice, my dear.”

She smiles. “As do you. You’ve taken similar advice too, I see?”

Over a snug woollen tunic, he wears a coat fashioned neatly from reindeer hide. The clasps are crafted from wood and bone. He’s donned a fur-rimmed hat, and around his neck he wears woollen maroon scarf. “It feels a little…odd, I must confess. I rarely buy new clothes for myself.”

Considering the various tears and mends on his previous clothes, she doesn’t doubt that. “I think it suits you.” 

He smiles. “That’s good to hear. Truthfully, I don’t really _need_ warmer clothes, but I thought I’d look quite strange if I didn’t. From what I understand, the people of Velen are quite…suspicious. I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself – if anyone realised I was a vampire, it could cause problems for us all.” He pats his mule’s neck. “That’s why I’m going to be riding a mule instead – Zoltan helped me secure one.”

“Mules don’t sense who you really are, then?” Yennefer asks.

“No, so they’re much easier to handle. The horses will get used to my presence, but they won’t appreciate me riding them, and I don’t want Ameer having to waste energy bewitching them. That reminds me…” Regis lowers his voice, despite them being alone. “Is he quite all right this morning? He was acting…strangely last night.”

“He was?” Yennefer frowns.

“Yes. He seemed upset. But he wouldn’t tell me why.”

Odd. Yennefer would have expected the opposite, having been reunited with his mother and siblings. “Well, I’m not sure about last night, but it’s true he’s been downcast this morning. You see, we have a new travelling companion with us.”

“Oh?” He frowns. “Since when?”

“Since about twenty minutes ago. A merchant called Dulla. From Ofier. The place where he was identified as a Fox Mother and cast out.”

He quickly realises the problem. “Oh. That isn’t ideal. Isn’t Ameer afraid he might get recognised?”

“I assume so. But Ofier is a large place, so hopefully it won’t be a problem.”

“Has Ameer told you anything more about what happened?” He asks.

“No. But…” She resists the urge to touch the crystal hanging around her neck, hidden under her clothes. “I was visited by his mother last night.”

Regis’s eyes widen. “You mean, his Fox Mother?” He asks quietly.

“Yes. She revitalised him with magic. That’s why his power has returned so suddenly. She told me that after his identity was discovered, he fled Ofier, and was caught trying to sail for Nilfgaard.” She hesitates. “And she told me…The one who caught him, and most likely sold him into slavery, was a mage. A dangerous mage. With a scar on his forehead.”

Regis’s face pales, instantly connecting the dots. “Tye. It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise.” Yennefer agrees.

Regis paces back and forth, brow furrowed in thought and his face grave. “But Ameer ended up in Skellige, where he was able to save Geralt’s life after he was poisoned. Doesn’t that interfere with Tye’s goal? If he wanted to kill Geralt in Skellige, why would he bring the one person able to help him there?”

“I don’t know.” Yennefer answers simply. “I can only assume he didn’t mean for Ameer to end up in Skellige, and that he was brought there by someone else’s hand. But if he put Ameer there himself…That would be truly puzzling.”

“Does Ameer know? That the man we hunt was most likely the man who enslaved him?” Regis asks.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say. I’ll talk to him about it later.” She has no idea how he’ll react at this news.

“Did the Fox Mother tell you anything else?”

Yennefer opens her mouth…and hesitates. The crystal presses up against her bare skin under her clothes, smooth and cold to the touch. Outside, she can hear chatter and footsteps of passerbys. Even in the solitude of the barn, she feels overcrowded.

The crystal feels heavy around her neck. But she shakes her head.

“…I’ll tell you more later.” She says quietly. Her deal with the Fox Mother, a blood-bound pact, one that could kill her if she fails…She won’t speak of it now. She’ll tell him later, somewhere more secluded than this busy city.

Instead, she takes out a small roll of parchment from her bag. “Actually, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“The last person to see Weavess was Ciri, as far as we know.” She passes Regis the letter. “Should we be forced to find the Crone ourselves, I want to know as much as possible about her. Ciri is the only one who has fought them and lived. Sending a normal letter will take too long, whereas a raven could get the message across far quicker.”

“Of course. I’ll have the letter sent immediately.” He pauses. “Do you really think we’ll have to find the Crone ourselves?”

“I hope not. If we manage to catch Tye before he reaches the Crone, then things will be a lot easier.” She hesitates. “But he’s got about five days of travelling ahead of us. He could be deep in the swamps by now.”

“I suppose all we can do is travel towards the orphanage and hope for the best.” Regis tries to sound optimistic, but Yennefer can clearly detect the anxiety in his voice. The thought of having to confront the Crone clearly inspires just as much dread in him as it does in her.

Securing the final horse, they return back to the warm doors of the Chameleon. Their private conversation is finished just in time, for Ameer walks down the stairs carrying his depressingly small bag.

“You have a good eye, Ameer.” Regis gestures to his new clothes with a smile, expertly ridding himself of the tension from their serious conversation so Ameer won’t get worried. “I’m sure that will keep you perfectly warm in Velen.”

Ameer smiles. “Thank you. I am just glad to wear something that is my own – and something to protect me from the cold and wet. I am sure the weather will be miserable.” He grins mischievously. “But at least there will be plenty of insects for you to eat, Regis!”

Regis takes it with good humour. “Silver linings, I suppose.” He tilts his head. “You’re looking very bright and fresh this morning. You’ve recovered from last night, then?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Ameer waves his hand dismissively. “But of course. I recover from hangovers very quickly. I am sorry you had to put up with my nonsense last night.”

“He can get terribly silly when he gets drunk.” Yennefer smiles. “Once in Nilfgaard –”

“Yennefer!” He looks embarrassed, already guessing the story she plans to regale.

“– he got very drunk, stole some of my jewellery, and buried it in the garden.”

Ameer’s face flushes. “I cannot help it! …You see, burying things is a habit of foxes. When I was younger, I had a bad habit of doing that – giving into the urge to steal things and bury them. I no longer have that habit, but when I get very, very drunk…Thankfully, I was not that bad last night. I am sorry if I was silly like that last night, Regis.”

“…It’s no problem.” Regis speaks carefully. “It’s just…you seemed upset last night.”

Ameer blinks. “I was? Well, whatever it was, I cannot even remember.” He’s lying. His face is too steady, too natural. “Sorry for worrying you, Regis.”

“…That’s all right.” Regis must correctly sense that he isn’t going to get anything out of Ameer. “I assume you don’t remember our visitor, then?”

Ameer frowns. “Who?”

Regis smiles. “I thought so.” He reaches into his bag and takes out an assortment of jars. They’re filled with seeds, Yennefer realises. “Gwenllian wanted me to give you these. An apology, for the…altercation in the caves.”

Ameer takes them from him, a smile growing on his face. “Oh! Wonderful! I cannot wait to grow these! I have missed the smell of Ofieri flora.”

So Gwenllian, a higher vampire involved in the murder they investigated, visited last night…Regis didn’t mention anything about that. “I didn’t realise you had a guest. Did she say anything else?”

Regis opens his mouth – then closes it abruptly. He’s gone quite pale. His hand hovers over his bag, only to retract suddenly.

“No.” He smiles thinly. “Nothing important.

Before Yennefer can ask any further, and question his obvious lie, the door opens. Zoltan enters the inn, carrying a large bag. “Provisions are all bought!”

Dandelion stands up. “Great. Yennefer, Regis, Ameer, we have something to tell you.”

Zoltan stands next to him, arms folded. “We’re going with you to find Tye.”

“That bastard must have the cure to the poison. I know Geralt doesn’t stand a chance without it. He’s our friend, and he’s helped us out more times than we can count. We’re not going to stand by and leave you to do all the hard work.” Dandelion tells them.

“And when we find Tye, when we get the cure out of him, we’ll cut him down for what he’s done.” Zoltan finishes bitterly.

Beside her, Regis’s surprise gives way to elation. “I will be overjoyed to have you with us, my old friends.”

“We can certainly do with all the help we can get.” Yennefer agrees. Dandelion can be very charming, which might help them get out of difficult situations peacefully, and Zoltan has impressive skill with an axe and battle tactics. “We’d be happy to have you along with us.”

“Zoltan shall set off with you immediately. I will catch up with you later.” Dandelion gestures to the letters. “I’m trying to negotiate with the Nilfgaardians, to let me into Oxenfurt. Needless to say, they’re not exactly fond of me right now.”

“Why are you trying to get into Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asks.

“The Academy. Thanks to the golem attack, the protests have temporarily halted. I’d like to use the opportunity to try and organise some talks between the Nilfgaardian council and the Academy ministers.” He explains. “If I can get them to reach a compromise, then hopefully the protests will end without anyone getting hurt. That place houses the birth of my education, so I’d hate to see something bad happen to it.”

“Wait for us at Downwarren. It’s the village nearest to our destination.” Yennefer tells him. “The plan is to travel towards the orphanage, where we know Tye aims to go. Hopefully, we’ll manage to catch up with Tye and intercept him _before_ he reaches the Crone, but there’s a chance we may have to speak with the Crone herself.” Yennefer dearly, dearly hopes it doesn’t come to that. A conversation with the Crone would be extremely risky, even for the likes of Regis. “Should we be forced to search the swamps surrounding the orphanage, I want you to stay in Downwarren with Ameer, where it’s safe.”

“Good idea. Hopefully, next time we meet, I’ll have news of the reopening of Oxenfurt Academy.”

The midday sun shines weakly down upon them when they leave the Chameleon.

Priscilla embraces Regis. “Good luck. Please, when you find Tye, send me a letter so I know.”

“Of course. We’ll make sure to send news as soon as possible. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Priscilla. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Me too.” She smiles. Next, she turns to Yennefer. “Here, take these. For the journey.” She hands Yennefer a bag. When she opens it, she’s hit with the warm smell of pie. A collection of small, thin pastries sit steaming in the bag.

“Cod pies. Our cook made them fresh this morning.”

“Thank you, Priscilla.” She’s done a wonderful job giving them shelter and providing them with advice and supplies. Dandelion better keep this one.

Priscilla hugs her. “It’s been wonderful seeing you again, Yennefer. Take good care of yourself.”

The crystal feels heavy around her neck. “Thank you. And you too.”

Finally, she moves to Ameer, holding something red and fabric in her hands. “I saw this in the markets some time ago. Dulla told me it was from Ofier.” She unfolds it for him – a crimson red shawl with golden tassels. Ameer runs his hand over the soft fabric. For a moment, his face becomes strangely inscrutable, unnaturally neutral. He’s hiding his reaction with an illusion, Yennefer realises. Then he smiles. A warm, polite smile. It looks genuine, but Yennefer wonders what turmoil hides beneath it.

“He said it would go for a significant price if I wanted to sell it, but I’m glad I held onto it. I’d like you to have it.”

He looks up at her and smiles again. “…Thank you.” He hugs her. “I have enjoyed meeting you and hearing your songs. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Thank you, Ameer. I’ll write a new song for when I next see you.” She smiles. “Stay safe.” Now, she turns to Zoltan. “Take care of yourself, Zoltan. I’ll make sure no one tries to steal your position at the gwent club.”

“Priscilla, you’re a star.” Zoltan grins. “Take care, lass.”

Yennefer sees Ameer still staring at the scarf in his hands. Slowly, hesitantly, he folds it up and carefully places it inside of his bag. Normally, he drapes it over his shoulder and up the opposite side of his torso, then ties a knot and readjusts it, wearing the scarf somewhat like a sash. She’s seen him wear them before. In fact, he had a red one just like that.

Surely it’s not the same one. Surely.

She looks at his face, still forcefully blank, and isn’t so sure.

Together, they set off from the Chameleon, leading their horses through the streets. Yennefer takes the black mare, and Ameer the yellow dun, that his Fox Mother summoned during the golem battle.

On the road again. Sometimes, when they had time at their leisure, she and Geralt would ride to destinations instead of teleporting, since Geralt hates portals so much. The sun on their backs, the noise of hooves against the path, with only each other for company on the long rides. Yennefer may be extravagant at times, and she certainly values her own comfort, but she secretly loved those long rides. Some helpless romantic trait inside her she always thought to be stupid forced its way to the surface on those rides. Now, she feels empty.

Before long, they reach the Gate of the Hierarch. The merchant Dulla waits for them there, right on time. His horse, a grey mare, is tethered to a caravan, the doors of which have been securely locked. Yennefer guesses that his merchant wares for Toussaint are inside. His face breaks into a relieved smile as they approach.

“Ah, there you are. I am glad to see you again!” He looks beyond Yennefer and Ameer. “You have more companions, then?”

“Hello. My name is Regis. By trade, I’m a barber-surgeon.” He shakes Dulla’s hand.

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. My name is Dulla kh’Amanni, a humble merchant from Ofier. And you are…?”

“Zoltan Chivay.” He holds up his hand in greeting. “You can call me something of a body guard, to help keep us safe. I’ve seen far worse than Velen, so don’t you worry.”

“It seems I am in good hands, then.” Dulla smiles. Considering a higher vampire is riding with him, he’s in better hands than he realises. “Shall we set off? I shall follow you; I believe you will be a better navigator than myself.”

“Zoltan, could you lead the way? You’ll know this land better than I do.” Yennefer asks.

“Of course. Follow me, I’ll take us on the shortest path.”

However, their journey takes them all day.

Zoltan leads confidently in the front, with Ameer following behind on the yellow dun. At first, he still seems uneasy being around Dulla, so he stays close to Zoltan and talks with him. Mainly, their conversation revolves around the northern kingdoms. There’s a lot Ameer doesn’t know about these lands – or rather, intricate but important details not to be found in a textbook.

“Vizima is where the Nilfgaardians have their new capital, is it not?” He asks.

“Vizima’s a shithole.” Zoltan answers him. “Maybe less of a shithole now, but still a shithole.”

Ameer nods thoughtfully. “So Velen is a shithole, Cintra was nice but then Nilfgaard killed everyone and made it a shithole, Aedirn is a shithole, and Vizima is a shithole?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“That is a lot of shitholes.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m biased, coming from Mahakam. And some are less shithole-y than others. You get used to it, see past the plague and famine to appreciate them for their charm.”

“And a shithole is…A very bad place?”

“Aye. A place you wouldn’t wanna go on a holiday. Like… it’s a pretty rough place where you’ve got to watch your back. You get me?”

“Ah, I see.” Ameer nods. “You have a lot of slang I don’t understand. Perhaps you can teach me some?”

“Of course. I’ll teach you some right proper good swears too if you want.”

Behind Ameer, Dulla sits on his hefty caravan, pulled by his mare that he affectionately calls Babiyetza. He talks to Regis and Yennefer, telling them about his homeland and its culture. Regis listens with genuine interest, eager to learn new facts. Yennefer has heard some of this already before from Ameer, but she pretends she hasn’t and encourages the merchant to say more. He clearly wants to speak to Ameer, but Ameer is glued to his conversation with Zoltan, so Yennefer feels somewhat sorry for him. All the while, Regis’s raven companion Tatanu flies overhead. Sometimes he overtakes them and doubles back, cawing impatiently. Other times, he gets tired of flying and settles down behind Regis on the horse, preening his feathers as he sits. 

They stop for a break outside of Drahim castle, an old set of ruins about midway through this patch of former Redanian land. The horses stop to eat and regain some of their stamina. Tatanu takes the opportunity to hunt some snails and grubs for his lunch, according to Regis. They all decide to have a late lunch too, just a small break before they continue their journey again. The small cod pies serve this purpose perfectly.

“So, a lass is a girl and a lad is a boy.” She hears Ameer speaking to Zoltan as he ties his horse to a post.

“Aye.”

“Which means yes.”

“Aye.” Zoltan grins.

“And a whoreson means the son of a prostitute, and a plough is something you use in the fields on a farm, but also means to…have intercourse with someone.”

“You’re getting it! And what is the ruder version of plough?”

Ameer thinks hard about it. His eyes light up as he remembers.

“Fuck?”

“There ye go! And you can use it to mean what plough means, or you can use it to tell someone to go away if they’ve pissed you off, which means if they’ve made you angry.”

Ameer nods thoughtfully at this. Yennefer can imagine him making notes, asking more about where the words originated from, ever the studious one. An amusing thought.

“I suppose you’ll have all sorts of slang and swearwords in your own language, Regis?” She asks him. Though she doesn’t clarify which language, not with Dulla in earshot.

“Indeed. Though I haven’t spoken it for a long time. A shame, really. There are a great many jokes and puns I have thought of making that rely entirely on our linguistic characteristics, so I’ve been unable to use them.”

“Ah, you are talking about languages?” Dulla ties Babiyetza to a post, patting her neck. “For me, I struggle with the idioms. There are so many in Common that make no sense to me, but when I try to use Ofieri phrases I am met with blank stares and confusion. The other day, I said someone had a long tongue – that means to be rude or vulgar. The man was just confused, and then took offense at me for insulting his tongue.”

“I’m afraid most of us in the north have long tongues, then.” Zoltan chuckles. “I’ve just been teaching Ameer some useful words.”

Dulla smiles. “Ah, is that so?”

Ameer, suddenly thrust into the conversation with the person he’s trying to avoid, busies himself with securely fastening his horse to the post, despite already having done so. “Yes, although it seems I still have much to learn.”

Dulla ambles casually over to Ameer. Yennefer and Regis exchange a concerned glance.

“So, this is your steed?” He asks.

Ameer resigns himself to the conversation, realising he has no choice but to engage. “Well, I only received her recently. I had a mare back home, a dappled grey.” Yennefer remembers the horse. He called her Hissani. Who knows what happened to it since Ameer’s banishment. Either dead, or sold on. “She was an excellent horse – fast, very agile. As for this horse…I will have to see how she turns out.”

“From what I have seen, the horses in this land are not as well-bred as the ones back home. Though a lot of that comes down to care, I think. Have you noticed, horses are treated either as farm animals or weapons of war?”

Ameer nods. “I have noticed that. Most of the war horses die anyway, but even the farm horses seem to be in poor health. I think I am lucky with this one – her teeth are a little poor, but otherwise she seems to have no ailments.”

Dulla looks at the horse carefully. “She has a similar build to my Babiyetza. I think she will most likely be fast – though she looks a little thin. With the right food and care, though, she will reach her potential in no time.”

Ameer smiles wryly. “Although nowhere near fast enough to beat my mare back home in a race. Or yours, I would wager.”

“That is true. I pride myself on her speed – even a witcher couldn’t beat her!” Dulla pats his mare affectionately. “Though northern horses are slow, so it was not much competition. Back home there is more challenge!”

Ameer hesitates. “Have you been home recently?”

“No, not for three years.”

So, he wasn’t around in Ofier when Ameer was forced to flee. “Three years…Do you hear much from back home?”

“I get lots of letters from my family.” He smiles wistfully. “I miss them, so every time I get a letter, I am so happy.”

Ameer falters at the mention of family, trying to hide his own homesickness. “What sort of things have they been telling you?”

“Oh, just family drama. This cousin offended that cousin, this niece graduated school and that nephew got expelled, my uncles have found new ways to not speak to one another over a ten year grudge involving a card game – that sort of news.”

Ameer keeps his gaze averted. “It has been a while since I was home myself. Have you heard any political news this past year or so?”

Dulla laughs. “I wish! I only found out the other _week_ that the malliq was almost killed by a shapeshifting monster two years ago! My mother and sister are terrible at keeping me informed of the going-ons. I dread to think what I’ve missed out on in my absence. When I visit home next, I am sure I will look like an utter fool.”

At this, Ameer visibly relaxes. It seems Dulla hasn’t heard about whatever mess occurred in Ofier when his Fox Mother status was discovered. Now, Yennefer can relax too. Just in case, she searches through Dulla’s mind, but she can find no suspicion or hostility towards Ameer. He must really have no idea about his true identity.

After that, Ameer begins to warm up to Dulla. Over lunch, Dulla shares some Ofieri cuisine with him. Small pancakes – Yennefer can’t quite remember the name, but she’s had them before. It uses a very specific part of wheat as its main ingredient, called semolina, giving it a milky, sweet taste, and then thyme is added for flavour. Ameer would sometimes eat them at breakfast. He told her it was a treat that originated from the very south of Ofier, thought to come from neighbouring kingdoms across the sea, but quickly became popular through the rest of the tribes.

“Oh, harcha!” Ameer breaks off a chunk and smells it. “I have not had this in such a long time!”

“I am afraid they are not entirely fresh – leftovers from breakfast.” Dulla says, almost embarrassed, but Ameer does not care one bit.

“Do you have these imported? Or does anyone sell semolina here?” He asks eagerly.

“Not exactly. I found a farmer who was willing to set aside a portion of wheat to be made into semolina. He was very confused why I wanted the hard, leftover parts of the wheat rather than the fine flour, but he agreed.” He explains. “I am looking forwards to visiting Toussaint – the honey there is of very fine quality, or so they say.” A popular accompaniment to harcha.

“Oh, I love honey. That is something even these northern kingdoms cannot do wrong.” Ameer smiles. He really does have a sweet tooth.

“You should try some honey cakes, then. They are no harcha, but they are very good. A little expensive, but worth it.”

Ameer talks to Dulla for the rest of the journey, switching casually in and out of Ofieri. Sometimes, he’ll lower his voice despite speaking in a language no one else can understand, his tone scandalous and mischievous. Dulla will laugh and agree with him. Yennefer can only assume he’s complaining about the northern kingdoms. It must be vindicating, having someone fully understand and agree with his gripes about these lands, someone who shares the same culture as him, in a way neither Yennefer nor Regis truly can.

As the autumn month demands, the day ends early and in no time at all the sun begins to set on their path. A falsely warm light bathes the land with its glow, as if the grass itself is ablaze.

“We should probably set up camp here.” Zoltan announces. “The border to Velen is nae but an hour away, but I think it’ll be safer if we stick to the Redanian side of the border for tonight.”

No one argues with him. Together, they set up tents to camp for the night. Zoltan is so efficient, he’s finished setting up half of them before Yennefer has even started.

As Ameer readies his own tent, leant to him by Dandelion, a red fox trots over to him. Rural foxes are normally wary of humans, too used to being hunted and killed for the sake of protecting chickens, but in Ameer’s presence they’re as confident as any domesticated dog.

Ameer strokes it behind the ears. “Hello there.”

Yennefer smiles. “I hope he’s not looking to steal our food.”

“No…” Ameer tilts his head, staring at the fox in their silent conversation. Soon, his expression changes from good-humoured to concerned.

Yennefer glances behind her – Dulla is distracted, talking to Regis, so she speaks quietly.

“What is it saying?”

“It is telling me not to go into Velen.” He frowns. “He says it is filled with bad.”

“With bad?”

“Yes…” Ameer listens again. “…The plants are bad, and the animals are mean.”

“The animals are mean?”

Ameer shrugs. “Foxes are gossipers, and sometimes the rumours get a little…mixed up. But he is very certain that we should not go into Velen. _Especially_ not to Crookback Bog.”

“Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to act against his advice.” She can only hope that they manage to find Tye before he reaches Crookback Bog – and before he reaches the Crone.

As the twilight fades into dusk, the air gets considerably colder. Already, signs of the river reach them – midges swarm upon them, whirling around them for a chance to feast upon their blood. But Dulla has an answer to that: strong scented incense that he lights and arranges in a circle around their camp. The pungent smoke must have some property that the insects dislike, for within minutes their camp is mosquito-free.

“The insects in our climate can carry terrible diseases.” He explains. “So it is vitally important we keep them away, especially from cities where disease spreads quickly.”

Ameer sniffs the incense. “It has been some time since I smelt this…Did you bring much with you from Ofier?”

“Oh yes.” He gestures to the caravan. “That wagon is very full, and even that is barely a fraction of my stock! What about you?”

“Not much. Only these.” He shows Dulla the collection of seeds from Gwenllian. “I am hoping to plant these, to recreate a perfume I once wore, but I think it will take a long time.”

“Which oils were you planning on using?”

“Jasmine and orange.”

Without a word, Dulla walks over to the caravan. He opens up the doors and searches around inside for a few minutes. Eventually, he returns to the campfire with two bottles.

“Here!” He gives them to Ameer. “You can use these oils.”

Ameer stares at them in shock, then holds them tightly to his chest. He smiles warmly at Dulla. “Thank you.”

“Do not worry yourself. My wagon is practically overloaded with wares, and I have plenty more at home!”

“Did you come to the north with all these supplies?” Ameer asks.

“No, not all at once. When we first arrived, our ship sank in a storm and we were only able to save limited supplies.” He shakes his head. “That was a terrible time. Fortunately, a witcher we met was able to retrieve my diagrams and even invested in Hadji’s runewright business. About every half year, we have supplies arrive from Ofier. Thankfully, these ships have fared better than the first.”

“A witcher...” Ameer tilts his head. “What was his name?”

“Geralt of Rivia.” He notices their expressions. “You know him?”

“Yes.” Yennefer forces a smile. “We know him very well.”

“It seems we have a mutual friend, then! We are very thankful to him. Poor man – he was going through a rough time when we first met him.”

Yennefer frowns. “How so?”

“You don’t know? Where to begin…You see, he had taken on a contract from a man to kill a monster in the sewers. The problem is, he did not realise this monster was actually our poor, cursed Prince.” Dulla shakes his head. “He barely managed to escape arrest. Of course, he was reluctant to tell us about this, but we understood. What happened was not his fault. He was tricked –”

“By Olgierd von Everec.” Ameer interjects. His stares with steely, intense eyes.

Dulla looks surprised. “Yes. You have heard of him?”

Ameer smiles: an empty smile that doesn’t bother to hide his malice. “Oh, yes. I would love to meet him one day, and _talk_ about what he did.” So he hasn’t forgotten about his proclaimed quest to kill the man who cursed his prince.

“You know, then?” Dulla surmises. “That _he_ was responsible for Prince Sirvat, not Geralt? How?”

Because of you and your runewright companion, Yennefer thinks. She remembers a conversation with Ameer while they staked out the elven ruins.

_“I was visiting my family back in the mountains when we heard news of Prince Sirvat’s death. A warrior proclaimed that Geralt of Rivia had slaughtered the Prince and the mage, Aamad, when he had been attempting to lift the curse. At the same time, a runewright sent a letter back to his family in the mountains. He had moved from the mountains to the capital, and then was sent to the northern kingdoms to spread the knowledge of his craft. He told of Geralt of Rivia, too, a man who helped return precious stolen manuscripts to his companion from dangerous bandits, who helped invest in his business after he lost all his tools. And he told the story of a witcher who was tricked into taking a contract, who believed he was helping to kill a monster that made the people of the town sick by poisoning the water, a monster that killed any person who went down into the sewers. In his story, Geralt of Rivia killed the monster without knowing it was a prince. The mage arrived too late and arrested him, hoping to bring him back to Ofier to regain his honour after failing to cure the prince. But a storm wrecked the ship, and Geralt escaped, killing Aamad to save his own life.”_

Had it not been for Hadji sending back a letter, Ameer would never have found out the true story. He would have gone on thinking that Geralt was a malicious kingslayer. Who knows – he might have even murdered Geralt in the Skelligan moors, or left him to die out of vengeance.

But thanks to this merchant and his runewright friend, that didn’t happen. Yet Dulla has no idea how their actions might well have saved Geralt’s life.

“I do not trust the words of Aamad or his family.” Ameer says simply, but with a clear edge of bitterness. “And I heard from someone else.”

Dulla accepts this. “Ah, but this talk of curses and dead princes is ruining the mood. Let us eat instead!” He reaches into his bags and takes out a jar. He opens the lid and offers it to Ameer, who smells it.

Ameer smiles. “It has been a long time since I have smelled this, too.”

“I was not planning on making a meal too heavy when we have so much travelling ahead. But would you care for some Ofieri cuisine?” Dulla asks the group.

“That would be delightful.” Yennefer smiles.

Dulla cooks them a vegetable-based curry, with lentils, root vegetables, spinach, and a multitude of spices and flavourings. Yennefer, of course, is well prepared for the taste, though it has been some time since she ate something with such a kick to it. Regis, though warned about the spice, is still taken aback and disguises this by coughing, which only makes it worse. Zoltan goes bright red in the face after one mouthful. Dulla has predicted this, though, as he makes a batch with significantly fewer spices.

“An inevitability in this realm.” He says when Zoltan tries to apologise, amusement in his voice. “Do not concern yourself. I have had people be far ruder about it.”

As the darkness of the night grows after a meal filled with interesting conversation, Zoltan decides to take first watch over the campsite. Armed with his axe, he settles down by the horses, staring across the fields. Yennefer doubts they’ll be the target of a bandit ambush, though. Since the war ended, travelling has become far less dangerous. And even if bandits were to approach, she wouldn’t be worried. They have a vampire with them, after all.

Ameer and Dulla lapse into Ofieri conversation, chatting excitedly and so quickly that even if Yennefer had some vague knowledge of the language, it would be impossible to keep up. He looks happy, though. It is a warm comfort meeting someone from your home country in foreign lands, so Yennefer doesn’t disturb him.

“…We should discuss the matter of Tye tomorrow, shouldn’t we?” Regis echoes her thoughts. They sit behind the tents, looking out across the ring of incense. Through the smoke, far in the distance, Yennefer can make out the blurry lines of the river that separates former Redania and Temeria. The land of Greyrock is ahead of them, the northernmost territory of Velen.

“Indeed. If he’s in a good mood, I have no desire to ruin it. Especially not so late at night.” Tomorrow, she decides. When they cross the border, she’ll speak to him about it. Though it’s with reluctance that she delays the news. She has gotten tired of holding onto secrets. Geralt really has a way of softening her.

Speaking of secrets, there’s one more topic she needs to broach. “…Regis. I need to show you something.”

Carefully, she removes the crystal from under her clothes and allows it to rest on her chest. Even without the light of candles or the campfire, even with only the obscured moon and stars to illuminate it, the crystal shimmers as brightly as the sun’s reflection on water.

“That’s a pretty ornament. Although I can only assume it has magical properties, rather than something you bought on a whim.” He guesses.

“Indeed. After the whole affair in Novigrad, I am quite sick of crystals.” She says wryly. “No, this was a gift.” She lowers her voice. “From the Fox Mother.”

Regis’s gaze becomes troubled. “From her? What kind of gift is it?”

“Well, less of a gift, I suppose. More of a job.” She traces the smooth surface with her finger. “She asked me to make sure Ameer doesn’t get himself killed.”

Regis frowns. “Shouldn’t that go without saying? I certainly don’t want him to get killed.”

“I know. But this is to make sure I don’t fail in that task, no matter what.” She looks down at the crystal. “She told me, if I were to be in danger, I could use it to teleport myself away to safety. But, should Ameer die or be seriously harmed, she will know. And she will use this to teleport me somewhere far less pleasant. The sort of location that will have me killed.”

Regis’s expression becomes one of grave concern. “Oh dear…”

“It’s certainly an added pressure I hadn’t been anticipating.

“And you said yes to this job?”

“I didn’t feel in the position to refuse. And Fox Mothers are individuals you do not want to anger.”

Regis sighs. “You are correct there. I apologise. You probably did the safest thing by agreeing to her deal.” His eyes glance towards the campfire. “Does Ameer know about this?”

“No, I don’t think so. He’d probably be rather irked if he did know. As of now, I have no intention of telling him.” An unpleasant secret, but one she feels forced to keep.

“…Well, no matter. Ameer is clever. I’m sure he’ll not put himself in danger so easily. Besides, between you and me, he’ll have some very professional and experienced back-up should circumstances turn dire. The Fox Mother didn’t clarify this was a solo job to undertake, did she?”

Yennefer smiles at this. “Yes. You’re right.” As difficult as it may be for her, as much as it goes against her nature, she finds comfort at this statement. She won’t be doing this alone.

It feels good, too, to get the secret off her chest. But she senses she’s not the only one who’s been hiding things.

“…Tell me, Regis.” She watches his face carefully. “What did you speak about with Gwenllian last night?”

Regis’s good-natured expression vanishes. “I…Nothing much. I told you.”

Yennefer frowns. “Regis, I thought you trusted me. And I’ve seen through better lies than yours. What is it?”

He sighs. “I…I’m sorry. That wasn’t…It’s just difficult to talk about.”

“What is it?” What could have him so worried?

Regis purses his lips. Slowly, very slowly, he opens his bag and pulls out a small pouch.

“Gwenllian…She gave me something. A gift, in the form of a warning.” He passes her the pouch. “Open it. You’ll see.”

Frowning, Yennefer opens the bag. Inside, she can see a somewhat dirty necklace chain.

“What’s this, then?” She picks it up and holds it to her face. “It just seems like an ordinary chain to me.”

Regis watches her carefully. “You don’t sense it?”

“Sense what?”

He sighs again. “That chain…It fills me with terrible dread. I’m assuming you can’t sense any magic on it?”

She holds it against her palm to examine it more closely. “…I don’t recognise the metal. But there’s definitely no magic.”

He nods, though he looks frustrated. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. You see, that necklace gave Gwenllian something akin to a chemical burn when she wore it. A burn that, even a week later, still hasn’t healed correctly.”

Yennefer stares at him in surprise, which quickly turns to concern. “A metal that can burn vampires?”

“Yes. Of course, I find it very disconcerting. I shall try to conduct some experiments, in hopes I can identify the metal’s chemical properties, but considering Tye knows about my identity…”

Yennefer puts the chain back in her bag. “The moment we reach somewhere with even the most basic research capabilities, I’ll help you. Like you said, this is very troubling.”

At this, he looks relieved. “Thank you. I didn’t want that on my mind. We have enough to think about.”

Thoughts of the Crone hover silently between them, like some bird of prey circling them from above.

Yennefer looks out across the fields. “I’m glad I’m not doing this alone. Truly, I am.”

“Goodness…the thought of taking up this endeavour by myself makes my heart churn with dread. I’m grateful for your presence, Yennefer.”

We’ll certainly need each other if we’re to get through this ordeal with all members of our party in one piece, she thinks to herself.

Though she does not voice this out loud.

Morning casts a layer of frost and mist across the fields in the final stretch of their journey.

There. Up ahead.

As they get closer, the sound of the river becomes more and more audible. Soon, the sight of water confirms that noise. Large and wild, with strong currents. A bridge stretches across the water, manned by Nilfgaardian soldiers. Zoltan’s gaze becomes suddenly weary.

“Right. Time to negotiate our passage.”

“No, do not worry. I have some papers.” Ameer rides ahead of him. His excuse is for Dulla’s ears only; the rest of the party know he refers to his illusions.

Indeed, they work perfectly. Although, Yennefer doubts the soldiers would have resisted them entering. Both territories belong to Nilfgaard now, after all, even with Temeria’s status as an independent vassal.

As they ride over the bridge, their horses seem agitated, shaking their reins and trying to move quickly. Yennefer’s almost tries to turn back, but she keeps a firm hand on the reins. No more being bucked off.

Nonetheless, they reach dry land. Their horses settle somewhat. Hopefully it was just drowners that startled them.

Yennefer stares out across the land. Hills fold out in the distance, ancient oaks nestled upon their peaks. Thick forests lay side by side with villages and farms, flimsy and frail next to their imposing, natural neighbours. She sees some fields bear no crop, no animals. Having never recovered from the wars, from the battles fought upon them, they remain as little more than grass. The smell of the swamp, of mud and stagnant water, is clear even from this distance.

Zoltan sighs, and speaks loudly from his horse.

“Well, everyone. Welcome to Velen.”


	2. Shared Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains book spoilers!
> 
> Also, in the books, the isle is called 'Avalon' (it's a reference to the myth of King Arthur) but for some reason in the games it's called 'Avallach'. I don't know why they decided to change the name, or if it was some sort of translation problem (it's a little confusing since they have the character of Avallac'h in Witcher 3!). For this chapter I've followed the translation of the games and called it the isle of Avallach, just in case any book fans were confused!

_“Yennefer told me that Ciri has departed for good. She inhabits another world and is happy there. Before she left this one, she gave us the Isle of Avallach. Our island…We stopped counting time.” – Geralt remembering his time with Yennefer on the Isle of Avallach._

The isle smells of apples and wildflowers.

Mist rolls over from the waters, coating the grass and leaves with sparkling dew. A beautiful scene.

But the isle of Avallach isn’t peaceful today.

Geralt kneels on the ground, bowing his head to the grass. The dew tickles his beard. He hasn’t been asked to kneel this way, but he does it anyway. Out of shame. Out of guilt. Out of disgust towards himself.

“Yen.” He whispers. “Yen. I’m so sorry.”

“Go away, Geralt.” Her voice quivers with anger and upset.

“Yen –”

“You were in a relationship with Fringilla Vigo for four months? And _lied_ to me about it?”

He looks up at last. She stands with her back to him, arms around herself tightly. Her raven hair glistens in the sun, damp from the mist. She refuses to look at him.

“I…I was wrong. I know that.”

“Do you know what Vilgefortz did to me, Geralt?” Her voice is strained. “The ways he tortured me?”

Guilt consumes him.

“But I held out. For our daughter. I didn’t break. For our daughter.”

“Yen, I didn’t know –”

Now she turns. Now, he sees the fury in her violet eyes. “And all the while, you were off playing around with Fringilla Vigo in Toussaint? Having the time of your life with your side sorceress while I withstood torture after torture to keep our daughter safe? And the worst part is, she was part of the very organisation that wanted to manipulate Ciri! She was manipulating _you_! And you didn’t even realise it!”

“I…I made a mistake…”

“A mistake that lasted four months!”

“Yen –”

“Was I really that easy to cast aside? The last time you saw me was in the blood bath at Thanned. Ciri was _missing_. For all you knew, we could both have been dead. And yet there you were, running off to another woman’s bed, not a care in the world about what had happened to either of us.”

“That’s not true, Yen.”

“How am I supposed to know otherwise, Geralt?” She demands. “You were with that woman for four months while Ciri was fighting for her life, and while I was being tortured. All of our history, everything we shared together – did it really mean that little to you? That you just _forgot_ about me the second that another pretty woman appeared? You know, I thought of you.” Her voice quivers. “When I was being tortured. He wanted to scour my mind and find out where Ciri was. So I thought of you instead. I thought of how much I loved you. To protect Ciri. And for my own sanity. And all those times I was thinking of you, and how much I loved you…All that time, you were cheating on me? What if I had died, Geralt? What if Vilgefortz had killed me, right there and then? Or what if he had found Ciri while you were still fooling around in Toussaint? Impregnated her, used her for his twisted experiments? And all the while, you would have been none the wiser in Toussaint, perfectly happy with Fringilla on your arm.”

His fists curl into a ball, digging dirt underneath his fingernails. Never has he been consumed with such a hot, intense hatred – towards himself.

He had to tell her. He couldn’t keep it a secret. His affair with Fringilla, his reasons for that affair, weighed too heavily on his mind. He had to tell her.

And she has every right to be angry. She suffered terribly, being tortured by that crazed mage, while he sulked and made love to a woman who was truly manipulating him. She’s right. What if she had been killed by Vilgefortz? What if Vilgefortz had succeeded with his plans towards Ciri? While he was making love to a woman he barely knew, who was working with the Lodge? He was a fool. An ignorant, stupid, fool. Regis had been right to be angry at him. And none of Yennefer’s rage is displaced.

How can he make this up to her? How can she trust him again?

“I…I…”

“Leave, Geralt. I don’t want to talk to you right now.” Her voice is thick, as if holding back tears. “Go.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I said go, Geralt.”

Someone slaps him across the face. Very hard.

Wincing, he touches his cheek tentatively, and looks up.

They’re not alone on the island. Someone stands in front of him. Who has joined them here? An elf. An elf from Ofier. He wears a dark green cloak with orange fur, embroidered with leaves, over a green woollen tunic. 

The elf looks down upon Geralt with utter contempt. He shakes his head angrily.

Ameer.

The second Geralt realises, his body dissolves into dust, and is instantly replaced with a different Geralt underneath, one with more scars. His simple clothes are replaced with thick winter armour, perfect for traversing Skellige. And, of course, comes the knowledge of who the elf is, and why he’s standing in Geralt’s memory.

Geralt rubs his cheek. “Ameer? What are you doing – why did you hit me?”

Ameer doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and walks angrily away.

“Ameer!” Geralt calls after him. Then internally kicks himself for bothering to shout when Ameer can’t hear him.

“Damn it.” He gets up and runs after Ameer. The aguara walks through the waters, which suddenly seem very shallow. The water doesn’t dampen his clothes.

Geralt manages to catch up. He grabs Ameer’s arm. “Wait a second. Let’s try and talk.”

Ameer angrily shakes off Geralt’s grip. His green eyes are filled with disdain. Why is he so angry? This can’t just be his disgust at Geralt’s poor behaviour. For some reason, he’s taken this very personally.

Ameer continues walking, and soon the isles and mists disappear. Instead, he walks along stone corridors. The sudden change in scenery is disorientating. Down one direction, Geralt can see light. Maybe that’s where the paths are, one leading to Kaer Morhen and one leading to Ameer’s mind. Down the other direction, Geralt can see rows upon rows of doors.

What is this? Memories? Does each door hold a memory?

Ameer walks down the corridor. Geralt runs after him, calling automatically – and fruitlessly. “Ameer, wait.”

Ameer opens a door on the same side of the corridor, and steps inside. Maybe he’s looking for evidence of his affair. Geralt follows him. And instantly cringes.

The memory shows a scene from Vizima. When Geralt worked for King Foltest. With Triss, who was King Foltest’s advisor at the time.

When he was _with_ Triss.

“Oh, shit…” He tries to cover Ameer’s eyes, who snatches his hand away angrily and leaves the room.

“Wait. You don’t understand. I had amnesia.” He says frantically as Ameer opens another door.

The next room shows a beach facing Fyke Island. Keira Metz features predominantly in this memory.

Geralt receives another slap in the face before Ameer storms from the room. He understands now. This isn’t some sort of cultural barrier, about Geralt having multiple partners. This is about Yennefer. Is Ameer friends with Yennefer? He must know her, at least, and be fond of her. That’s why he was so angry about Geralt’s mistake during their argument on the isle of Avallach.

Geralt sighs, and chases after Ameer as he walks through yet another door. “Come on, stop. You’ve seen enough. I get the message.”

Ameer stops suddenly, staring at the scene. Geralt almost crashes into him.

Once more, the memory takes place on the isle of Avallach. This was after the argument, Geralt remembers. For a while, he had given her space. He had wanted desperately to comfort her, but knew not to. Not yet. Apology after apology left his mouth. All were genuine. When, at last she approached him, he promised her that he would never abandon her, ever again. Now, in hindsight, he understands her anger and hurt at his affair with Triss, no matter his excuse of amnesia. Now, he understands why she hesitated in reaching out to him when she regained her memory and was released by Nilfgaard. The last memory they had together, before she was kidnapped by the Wild Hunt, was on this isle. The very isle he promised to never abandon her. Then, after all she went through, she found him warming another woman’s bed, that promise forgotten. It must have hurt. A lot.

But right now, in this memory, things are peaceful. This was after Yennefer finally forgave Geralt for his wrongdoing.

He sees himself lying with Yennefer underneath the apple tree. Her head rests on his chest, eyes closed in contentment. He plays with her raven hair gently, playfully.

Ameer watches silently. His face is unreadable.

Geralt sees himself kiss Yennefer on the head. The smell of wildflowers is strong, fresh on the breeze. Water laps gently against the isle, mesmerising and peaceful.

“One day, we should go to Toussaint.” Yennefer says. “I hear it’s very charming.”

“Yeah, it is.” Geralt sees the hesitation on his own face. Yennefer sees it too.

“What is it?”

“I…It’s just, my hanse…” Their last location before Stygga castle. The last place they stayed, and were truly safe and happy, before their deaths. Geralt stares at the ground. He tries very hard not to think about it, to push back the choking feeling in his throat.

“Oh. I understand.”

“But for you, we can go.” The memory Geralt smiles. “For as long as you wish.”

“That sounds delightful.” Yennefer smiles. “I don’t suppose you know anyone there who might offer us an invitation?”

“Hm…Considering how things went down between her and Dandelion, I’m not sure if Anna Henrietta would be too keen to see me again…”

“Goodness, was everyone off courting in Toussaint? Though Dandelion shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well, not everyone…Though my friend Regis, he had a lover called Natanis…” Again, he sees his face fall. At this time, he thought Regis was dead.

Yennefer strokes her finger across his cheek. “…You know, perhaps we shouldn’t go to Toussaint.”

“And why is that?”

“Because then we’d have to leave our beautiful isle. And I’m in no hurry to do that.”

The memory Geralt smiles. “You’re right.”

“I love you, Geralt.” Yennefer whispers.

“I love you, Yen.” He hears himself say gently.

Once more, Ameer turns away. But there’s no anger now. He tries to hide his face from Geralt, but fails. Geralt sees the tears in his eyes.

This time, Geralt doesn’t chase after him immediately. He lingers, watching the scene for a few minutes longer. How enviously he feels over this past self. How desperately he wants to return to that scene, relive that moment. Yennefer by his side. Nothing to worry about. Nothing trying to hurt them. Simple serenity.

At last, he tears his gaze away and walks out the door, back to the strange corridor. Now, he can’t see Ameer. Where’s he gone?

Geralt hesitates.

What’s on the other side of the corridor?

All these memories, these were behind doors on the same side. But if he were to cross the hallway, open the door opposite him, what would he see? More of his own memories?

Or someone else’s?

Tentatively, he opens the door and steps inside.

Instantly, chaos surrounds him. He’s affronted with a sudden barrage of chatter and shouted orders in a language he doesn’t understand. People walk back and forth between beds, some with bloodstained overalls. Those lying in the beds moan with pain. Some are sleeping or unconscious.

A hospital in Ofier. Geralt scans the crowd until he finds Ameer. The aguara sits by one of the beds, carefully holding a cup to a patient’s mouth. The patient has no energy to even raise his hands, but drinks the liquid. He grimaces once he’s finished, not liking the taste. A medicine, most likely.

Ameer places a damp cloth across the man’s forehead. The man breathes in relief, and says something in a weak voice. Probably thank you.

Huh. Just as he thought. Ameer’s memories.

Ameer turns to someone wearing a uniform and gives them a bottle, gesturing to the man and giving instructions. The nurse nods respectfully, without answering back or debating the order. Ameer then moves on to another bed. This patient is in even worse shape, their expression twisted with pain and sweating profusely. Ameer speaks to the doctors standing by the bed. Soon, his expression turns to one of anger. He shouts at the doctors and hurriedly presses a medicine bottle to the patient’s lips. With considerable effort, the patient drinks the medicine. All around, the doctors look sheepish and embarrassed. They made a mistake with the treatment and the patient got worse, Geralt figures. Ameer gently touches the patient’s hand, his tone reassuring and gentle. The patient relaxes, his face less pained.

So, Ameer was a doctor here in Ofier. He was good at his job, and the other doctors respected his judgement. That much is clear. So, how did Ameer end up a slave in Skellige? What caused such a dramatic shift?

Geralt steps out the door, back into the corridor, and looks down the vast, branching hallways. What other memories do these doors hold? About this stranger who has now unexpectedly become one of the most important people in Geralt’s life?

He becomes acutely aware of the imbalance. Geralt and Ameer had a brief meeting together, helped each other, but otherwise knew next to nothing about each other. But that will change – Ameer is with Yennefer and Regis. No doubt he’ll have been learning all about Geralt, his life, his relationships, his mistakes. But Geralt doesn’t get the opportunity to learn anything about Ameer, to get to know the person who saved him any better. Communication in this world is difficult and messy. Neither of them knows how to speak through sign language, so crude charades is the best they can do. Conversations are minimal. And Geralt is left ignorant. He knows nothing about the person now sharing his mind and memories, and has no one to tell him in any clear way, while Ameer is free to learn as much as he wants from Yennefer and Regis.

But there’s a way he can fix that imbalance.

There are countless doors here. One after the other, all holding memories like that hospital scene. Maybe if he searches through some of Ameer's memories, Geralt can stop feeling so ignorant. He can come to understand the person who resides in his mind, and stop that familiarity feeling so one-sided. Maybe he might even learn something useful that will help him to communicate with Ameer better?

He probably shouldn’t. Ameer probably respects his privacy. And it might be dangerous, for all Geralt knows. But somehow, he finds himself reaching for another door handle regardless. Fuck it. Ameer went running around in Geralt’s memories without a care. A rare vindictive streak fires inside of him. Ameer had no qualms about searching through Geralt’s very private memories, so why should he hesitate? And besides, he has no body. He’s stuck inside a medallion. And in those other memories, nothing bad happened. What’s the harm?

Geralt opens the door and steps inside. The location of this memory is very familiar. As Geralt looks upon the wooden panelling, the fancy decorations, the plush bedding and stained glass windows, he realises he’s standing in a bedroom at the Chameleon.

This must be a recent memory, then. But he can’t see Yennefer or Regis. He can’t see Priscilla, Dandelion, or Zoltan.

He sees Ameer in the arms of a she elf. A tall, Ofieri she elf with long black hair and a dark blue dress. He sees her green eyes, the pupils slit like a fox, as she embraces Ameer tightly.

Oh. His Fox Mother, Geralt realises. This is the being who transformed him.

This most certainly is a recent memory, for Geralt can see his own wolf medallion around Ameer’s neck. So, he managed to be reunited with his mother. That’s good.

He watches, feeling like an imposition, as Ameer weeps and laughs in relief and joy at being reunited with his family. His mother holds him with the same fierceness and overwhelming love that Geralt has seen in Yennefer when she embraces Ciri. She only lets go of him to cup his face in her hands and kiss him on the head, on the cheek, on his forehead, before holding him very tightly again. Three young and rather small she-elfs clamber around him, chattering excitedly in a language Geralt doesn’t understand as they tug at his clothes and cling to him. His sisters. Or some of them, at least. Ameer holds them close to him. He looks truly, genuinely happy.

Geralt starts to feel a little guilty for intruding on Ameer’s privacy like this – then reminds himself that Ameer didn’t feel guilty. He leaves the memory and starts searching for another door. He should stick with more basic facts. Who is Ameer? Where was he born? What’s his job? How did he end up in the north?

As he searches the stone corridor, though, he quickly realises two things.

One, there is no way for him to identify which room might contain these answers. Each door looks identical.

Two, this place is like a labyrinth. There are far more twists and turns, far more branching paths, than he first expected. And there isn’t exactly a map of the place. He’ll have to rely on his memory and sense of direction to lead him back to the main paths once he’s found what he’s looking for.

Eventually, he decides to stop at a door that, at last, looks a little different from the rest. He can see a line of dust around the borders, cobwebs in the corners. A subtle difference, but one Geralt immediately notices. This door is old, as if it hasn’t been used in a while.

He opens it, causing the dust to shiver and dislodge, and walks through.

Instantly, a child almost runs into him. Geralt quickly sidesteps as an elven child runs giggling past him, carefully carrying a pair of scissors in his hands. Is this child Ameer? It has to be...

But his eyes aren’t green here. They’re brown. Strange.

The air of this place has an odd tinge to it, giving it the impression of old paper. The elf runs across an arid garden surrounded by mountains, towards a dead and dried tree with an ashen trunk and empty branches. Sitting in the hollow of the tree, Geralt spies another elven child. The same age, and looking very similar to the first in appearance - except this one has long hair.

Ameer and his sister, perhaps? Geralt watches as the girl shouts something in Ofieri and beckons Ameer over, who shouts something back and crawls into the hollow with her. Geralt kneels down to see them better. This isn’t relevant to what he came to find out, but he’s curious to know what they’re doing.

Mischief is the answer. Ameer is cutting off his sister’s hair. Considering she can barely contain her giggles, this is presumably a double act. Why is beyond him - until they exchange overcoats and shoes, and the sister gives Ameer the pink bow from her hair, which he fastens in his own.

If he hadn’t seen them switch clothes like this, Geralt wouldn’t have been able to tell which was which, especially now that their hair matches. They’re definitely twins then.

They chatter gleefully between themselves for a few minutes, admiring the handiwork of their prank. Then the sister crawls out of the tree hollow and begins running towards the house.

Ameer begins to follow her, refastening the bow in his hair –

And stops dead in his tracks.

Geralt can’t hear anything, but Ameer turns his head towards the bushes. They had been empty before.

But now, Geralt sees a figure. A she elf with long black hair and vivid green eyes. Her navy dress billows in some unseen wind. She holds out her hand towards Ameer.

Ameer stares at it. He looks towards the house, then back to the she elf.

And he starts walking towards her.

Geralt quickly decides to leave this memory. Instinct tells him not to dwell too long on Fox Mother sorcery.

In the next room that Geralt visits, Ameer now has green eyes.

He’s older than the previous memory, but still a young child. The environment is one of rocky slope and prickly, dried bushes. On those rocks lies a corpse.

Ameer is sitting on a boulder, staring down at the body of a man. The remains of a campfire are destroyed on one side, and various stakes dug into the ground at his left. Geralt spies animal hoof prints in the dirt. This man was a traveller.

His throat has been slit, and all of his possessions are gone. Not even a coin pouch at his side.

Geralt doesn’t know much about Ofier, but he can piece two and two together very easily. The man was attacked by bandits, who killed him and stole his belongings, tents and steed.

Ameer stares at the corpse with a troubled expression. He has a set of odd foxy ears, sandy in colour, which swivel as he turns his head from side to side. He looks behind him and shouts something in Ofieri.

Moments later, the Fox Mother appears. As soon as she sees the body, she scoops up Ameer in her arms and turns him away from the scene. The body fizzles from view as she does so.

She begins to speak - at first, in a language that most certainly isn’t Ofieri. Then, she speaks quietly in Elder Speech.

Geralt can’t quite follow it all. But he picks up the basic message.

This is the cruelty of man. You must never go near them.

Ameer clings onto the Fox Mother tightly. In that moment, he looks scared. But Geralt knows that this warning, this first insight into the monstrous nature of human kind, clearly wasn’t enough to dispel his curiosity.

The next door is proof of this. Now, Ameer is an adult. Geralt is thrown by how different he looks. Instead of northern clothes, he wears something of Ofieri fashion: an orangeish pink robe with a red sash, the hems decorated with gold and darker red patterns.

Right now, he’s kneeling down in a walled garden, picking herbs from a bush and placing them carefully in a basket. Water trickles from a nearby fountain, and a black banner with a golden sun hangs proudly from a gazebo. Nilfgaard. The low light of the moon casts a haunted, gentle shadow across him. It accentuates his features in a way Geralt never considered before – enshrouding him in the same allure as most other northern elves, the kind of beauty that subjects them to jealous hate and fervent desire alike. 

Behind Ameer stands a familiar woman, even more beautiful in Geralt’s eyes.

Raven black hair. Deep violet eyes. A gown of black and white. Instantly, Geralt smells the lilac and gooseberry.

Yennefer looks a little younger than when Geralt first met her. But she still has the same sharp face and fierce eyes.

Those eyes look cautious as she watches Ameer carefully. Though Ameer appears relaxed and casual, the air crackles with tension and uncertainty.

“...You look as if you have something to say.” Ameer speaks at last, still picking herbs from the bushes. Geralt is shocked at the sound of his voice, now that he knows what is being said. His tone is confident, smooth, alluringly quiet yet firm. Nothing like the timid, hushed voice from the Skelligan moors. “Is there something you need?”

“I think you know what I have to say.” Yennefer speaks slowly.

Ameer smiles, amused. “Yes. There is no point in either of us denying it, is there?”

If Yennefer is nervous, she doesn’t show it. “No, there’s not.” 

“Tell me, then. How did you figure it out?”

Yennefer shifts. “You were very nervous around that Viper Witcher. Uncharacteristically nervous. His medallion went missing – I found it in your room. You stole it from him. You’d only steal it if you were worried that it’d vibrate in your presence. That was the first clue. You had a reflection and cast a shadow, so that ruled out being a higher vampire – not that you’d need to hide the medallion if you were. I wondered if perhaps you were a doppler. But then I realised animals reacted strangely to your presence. In fact, they seemed to revere it: the snake left by the assassin to kill that nurse instantly became calm when you arrived; the crows attacked the thief leaving the embassy most viciously; the lieutenant, who insulted you most rudely, had his horse suddenly rear up and throw him off embarrassingly. All while you were present. That is far beyond the capacity of dopplers.”

“And? Mages can control animals.”

“Not many to that extent, and without visibly casting a single spell. It wasn’t just animals, either. Those nekkers all fled from your presence. No, fled is wrong. They simply walked dutifully away. As if they had been commanded to do so.”

Ameer says nothing.

“So you’re clearly not a simple mage like you claim to be. Not a vampire, not a doppler. Something with an elvish appearance. Something that can bewitch other creatures, whose presence would make a witcher’s medallion vibrate. Then came the matter of the illusions. You seem to have a real knack for suddenly disappearing from danger, or reappearing in places you shouldn’t be. At times, you show up somewhere despite no one seeing you enter, or vanish when nobody saw you leave. And you have an endless supply of warrants and letters of permissions.”

Ameer is silent for a while, still methodically picking herbs. He nods calmly. “...I have been sloppy. Too distracted by my patients’ wellbeing. I was not expecting someone to be watching me as intently as you have. I should have been more careful. Nilfgaard really is full of spies and power-hungry lunatics.”

“I’m no spy. Nor am I looking for power.” Yennefer says sharply. “I’m just observant. And well read. Your mistake was keeping the witcher medallion. You should have thrown it out. Then I might not have suspected you at all; wouldn’t have noticed the other oddities.”

Ameer smiles. “It seems you are a very smart woman, Yennefer of Vengerberg. No other human has managed to figure out my true identity before. You are the first. Congratulations. So, what do you wish for? Are you here to blackmail me?”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Yennefer sounds offended.

Ameer looks over at her, matching her gaze for the first time. He looks surprised at her tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Trying to blackmail a Fox Mother is the same as attempting suicide. I’m not so desperate that I’d be willing to do something so stupid. You’d lead me into a trap and kill me.”

Ameer’s eyes glow in the low light. “You think that I will not anyway?”

Yennefer tightens her face. “I have something you need.”

“And what is that?”

“The identity of the assassin who killed your patient. I can help you get revenge, and figure out who hired the assassin. Fox Mothers do value their vengeance, don’t they?”

Ameer stands up. He’s suddenly behind Yennefer. She manages to control her surprise exceedingly well.

Slowly, Ameer encircles her, observing her carefully. She doesn’t even bat an eye lid.

“...What do you want out of this? You said you are not a spy and you are not after power. Yet here you are, dabbling in Nilfgaardian politics.”

“Please. I simply want money, not power.”

“Money? Why?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He tilts his head. “You want to cure your infertility.”

Geralt sees her fist tighten. “And how would you know about that?”

“It was easy to figure out. Obviously, most sorceresses are infertile, everyone knows that. I saw you speaking with a gynaecological specialist. And you have stated many times that you dislike Nilfgaard – you would not have come here unless it was for something very important, very personal.”

“Yes. And when we catch the killer, there’ll be a big reward in order. Money I can use for some very expensive research.”

“I see. And you think I will let you live? Now that you know my secret?”

“Of course.” She says confidently. “Murder is inconvenient, suspicious. Especially the murder of a foreigner in a country with very strict law and secret police. Whereas memory loss? Far easier to manage.” She gestures to the basket of herbs. “Those are for me, aren’t they?”

Ameer says nothing.

“But I also know you won’t try and slip me a memory erasing concoction, because you don’t know who killed your patient. Fox Mothers are vindictive, but they’re also fair. You wouldn’t kill someone who did you a favour. But if we could work together, we can _both_ achieve our goals. It’s a far more favourable situation, isn’t it?”

Ameer watches her, a smile creeping onto his face. “You are making many assumptions here. A risky move – for all you know, I could turn around and kill you anyway.”

Yennefer waits expectantly.

“But...I suppose you are correct.” He puts down the basket. “This new arrangement could be beneficial to both of us.”

Only slight relief shows on Yennefer’s face. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And I am an honourable man. I can tell you will not spread around my secret. Like you said, you do not strike me as an idiot. You know that no one would be able to catch me, and that I would inevitably come after you and kill you.”

Yennefer smiles. “It seems we’re in agreement, then. It’s a pleasure to become your ally.”

“...You are an interesting woman, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” A smile appears on his face, and Geralt sees sharp canines where there should be none. “And I can sense great magical power on you. I think I would like to become friends. You are certainly someone I would want on my side, rather than working against me.”

“I feel very much the same.”

So their relationship was simply one of convenience at first. More of a partnership than a friendship. That makes sense, knowing Yennefer’s character. But considering Ameer’s reaction earlier, they clearly developed that relationship further into a friendship, a true friendship.

Geralt lingers a bit longer in this memory, simply because he likes looking at Yennefer. But he has a job to do, so he gets back to work.

He leaves the room and enters another. This time, he steps out onto a busy street. The sun is bright in a cloudless sky. All around him, stalls line the streets. Piles of spices, dried fish, decorated fabrics, flowers, pottery. The vendors shout their products, buyers haggle down prices. Ofier again. Geralt recognises these market places – he’s been to them before, when he was accidentally teleported to Ofier a few years ago. This one seems even busier than the one he visited.

Ahead of him, he sees Ameer walking through the streets, at first paying no heed to the stalls. Geralt follows him carefully, trying to avoid the throngs of people. Ameer passes a stall selling scarves, or sashes – Geralt isn’t sure of their proper name – and pauses. He walks back and begins talking to the vendor. Eventually, he picks out a dark blue scarf, made from velvet and decorated with silver at the hems. He pays the vendor and looks down at the scarf with a soft smile.

Not much to learn from this room. Geralt leaves the busy street and begins walking down the corridors again.

Soon, another door catches his eye. This one looks different from the others. No cobwebs or dust, like the door that housed Ameer’s childhood memories. Instead, the door is heavily reinforced with metal. An iron frame replaces a wooden one, and a heavy beam is bolted across the entrance.

Strange. Geralt walks to the door, lifting one of the beams in his hands. It’s almost impossible to lift, even for him.

Why is this memory locked away like this? So heavily fortified? What is Ameer hiding inside, pushing deep down inside himself? Does this door hold the secret of how he ended up in Skellige?

Gritting his teeth, Geralt clasps the metal beam and begins to lift. The metal groans in his hands. Even someone like Letho would struggle with this. Panting, Geralt channels his energy into his shaking arms. With one last surge of effort, he lifts off the beam and drops it onto the ground, narrowly missing his feet.

Satisfied, Geralt wipes his brow and steps over the beam, pushing open the door. It takes his whole body weight to force it open. Whatever is behind this door, Ameer must really not want to remember it. Geralt prepares himself for memories of trauma, bloodshed, violence, anything Ameer might’ve faced on his journey from a doctor in Ofier to a slave in Skellige.

Inside, it’s very quiet. And Geralt sees the blue and silver scarf again.

This memory shows a bedroom. Going from the previous noisy environment, to one so quiet, is jarring. The room has a floral, tangy scent to it. Hm…Oranges. Not something Geralt had eaten very often before retiring in Toussaint, but he recognises it here. And the flower…Geralt can’t identify it, but it has a calming smell.

The room is warmly lit, but not with candles. A hunk of crystal, imperfect and uncut, emits a gentle orange light. The work of magic, maybe bought from a mage. A vanity, the wood intricately decorated, holds the illuminating crystal. The surface is cluttered: a coin purse; some blue beaded bracelets; dried white flowers that Geralt doesn’t recognise and dried orange slices next to some distillery equipment; an open book with anatomical drawings and notes written in a language Geralt cannot read. A bottle of Ofieri spirits is on the table – the logo shows a roaring leopard, though Geralt can’t read the text underneath. By the vanity, a chair has the blue scarf draped across the back.

Geralt turns to see the bed. Around it, clothes have been discarded on a plush rug on the floor. And in the bed, he sees Ameer.

Someone is lying next to him.

From where he stands, Geralt sees that the person in the bed is Ofieri – but human. A human man, in fact, with short hair and a beard. His eyes are closed, and he makes no noise or movement apart from breathing. But Ameer is awake. He looks upon his companion with tenderness.

“Rohan.” He whispers.

The man’s eye lids flutter. “Mm?”

“…’anā ‘uḥibbuka.” Ameer says quietly. Lovingly.

Geralt doesn’t know a single word of Ofieri. But he doesn’t need to.

He understands perfectly what Ameer just said.

His lover turns towards him. He places his hand on the side of Ameer’s head, fingers intertwining with his hair. And he kisses him. Softly, tenderly.

Geralt leaves the room. He understands now, why Ameer ran from Geralt’s memory with tears in his eyes.

Who was his lover? What became of him when Ameer somehow ended up in slavery?

Ameer is probably never going to see him again.

So he leaves the room, and hesitates when he enters the corridor again. He should stop. This is enough. The vindictive streak is starting to wear off. He should leave now, return to Kaer Morhen. He’s already intruded in plenty of personal moments.

But he did have a goal outside of spite. He wanted to learn more about Ameer. That goal has been achieved – almost. He still doesn’t know how Ameer ended up in the north.

And that could be important. Feelings of imbalance and ignorance aside, Geralt wants to know exactly how Ameer ended up in that situation. He doubts that Ameer’s presence in Skellige was a mistake. Somehow, in some twisted way, it must have been deliberate. And if his hunch is correct, then that memory might be the key to warning Ameer of who he's up against.

He’s come this far. He might as well try to discover this final memory.

With renewed determination, Geralt walks further along the corridor. But despite his rejuvenated will, he’s aware that he’s becoming more and more tired as he walks. His legs feel heavy as lead, and a headache is beginning to cluster around his temples. It seems ducking in and out of all these memories is taking a toll on his body – mind – soul – whatever. He has to finish this, quickly. Which door should he go through? There are infinite memories here. Picking random ones isn’t going to get him very far.

It’s not like he has any other strategy, though. So, he stops at a random door and opens it.

This room isn’t in Ofier.

Geralt feels the unsteady, rhythmic rocking of a ship. He hears the creaking of wooden floorboards and the crashing of waves outside. Bizarrely, he catches a faint floral smell in the air above the smell of wood and sea salt.

It’s difficult to see what’s in this memory; the environment is distorted, blurry. But from what Geralt can make out, it must be a private passenger’s room on a ship. In one corner, a desk is tucked away, in somewhat poor shape and water-stained. On top, he sees a stack of letters – though the writing is completely illegible. Next to them is a bowl of herbs and a leather bag. As Geralt looks at them, they phase in and out of focus. One moment they blur into the background; the next they appear again with fine detail. He notices, too, that the desk seems to be gently rocking, but in the opposite direction to the sway of the waves.

He’s familiar with this feeling. Sometimes, when he’s black-out drunk, the environment will begin to spin like this. But something about this feels…different. He senses that this isn’t a moment of drunkenness.

That thought is confirmed when his gaze falls to the other corner of the room. On top of a small bed sits Ameer. His head is resting against the wall, eyes flickering. Geralt sees that his hands are chained with dimeritium shackles behind him, as are his feet. He looks…bad. Heavy shadows under his eyes. His face etched with exhaustion and fear. And he can barely keep his eyes open. Geralt can’t be certain, but he assumes that Ameer has been sedated with something, maybe with those herbs on the desk.

Ameer groans quietly, banging his head deliberately against the wall. His eyes open with more alertness. The distorted filter of the memory fades a little, and Geralt can see more clearly. He’s fighting against the sedative. Now that Geralt can see better, he realises that Ameer is fiddling with his hands behind him.

A pin. Geralt leans closer to look, and sees a pin clutched in his fingertips. He’s trying to pick the lock of the shackles. But he’s not doing a good job – the sedative must have scattered his concentration. It takes all his effort to simply get the pin in the lock, let alone start twisting it.

For a second, Geralt automatically tries to help him. But this is a memory – there’s nothing he can do for something that’s already happened.

Ameer hears something. His face becomes more alert, panicked. He clenches the pin in his fist and shuffles closer to the corner, curling up defensively. Geralt hears it too: footsteps against wood. In the corner, Geralt sees the door – not the door he came from, but the actual door of the ship’s room. That’s where the footsteps are coming from. Geralt stands on one side of it. If someone’s coming into the room, he wants to stay out of the way; should the memory crash into him, it’ll turn into dust and fade. Then the chain of events will be ruined, and he won’t get to glean any more clues from this memory.

The door opens. A figure walks into the room. Medium height, an unimpressive stature. Whoever it is wears a black cloak with the hood pulled up, and a scarf around their neck that conceals half of their face. Between the two clothing items, Geralt can’t make out even a single feature.

The person stops at the sight of Ameer, who stares back angrily, struggling to keep awake. Geralt hears the person sigh.

“What do you have?” It’s a man’s voice. Slightly echoey from the sedative, but definitely a man’s, with an undertone of nervousness. Geralt doesn’t recognise the voice, but it’s definitely a northerner.

Ameer shrinks back, clenching his fist tightly. But behind the anger telling his captor to stay away, his fear is undeniable. It undermines the threat in his eyes. Geralt feels a pang of sympathy for him.

The captor sighs again, and moves forwards. “Let me see. What’s in your hand?” As he leans down to look, hand reaching out, Ameer tenses. Geralt realises what he plans to do a moment before he does it.

Ameer may be drugged, true, but Fox Mothers are still notoriously fast. Before his captor can move his hand, Ameer manages to bite it. He sinks his teeth down, hard. Even without his canines – being in an elf form – he bites hard enough to draw blood.

His captor hisses in pain. Oddly, though, he doesn’t strike Ameer. With great effort, he pries his hand away, shaking it and cursing under his breath. Ameer spits blood and glares at him.

Carefully, his captor begins making motions with his uninjured hand over the bite. Soon, the wound begins to glow, and heals over. Huh. A mage.

“What’s in your hand?” He asks, voice wracked with tiredness and stress. “Give it to me.”

“Leave…” Ameer’s voice is sluggish. “Or I will…bite…”

“Do you want me to gag you again? Is that what you want?” His captor demands.

Ameer hisses, but he doesn’t have the energy to make it threatening.

Again, his captor sighs. He approaches more carefully this time, making sure to avoid Ameer’s face. He grabs Ameer’s hands and pries them open. The pin falls out.

“No!” Ameer’s head bangs against the wall, his voice keen in distress. The shackles rattle as he weakly tries to struggle. “No…”

Silently, his captor takes the pin and slips it into his pocket. For a second, he stares at Ameer. Watching as his prisoner struggles in frustration and panic and fear. Geralt can’t see his face. What expression lies there? Malice? Guilt? Or just plain, cruel apathy?

“…Time to sleep again.” He speaks at last, taking out a water pouch from his bag. He turns around –

And freezes abruptly.

Frowning, Geralt steps closer, trying to peer under the man’s cloak and scarf. But his face is just a mess of smudged features, as if someone has smeared their hand across a wet painting. Ameer either could not see this man, or does not remember what he looks like.

The man carries on staring.

Geralt looks over his shoulder. Strange. There’s no one else in this memory. Who is he looking at?

The man drops the water pouch. It spills on the floor before quickly turning to dust. He walks forwards, and holds up his hand. Red flames flicker from his outstretched palm.

He can see Geralt.

Geralt has no time to try and figure out how this is possible. He simply dives, barely avoiding the blast of fire.

The man readjusts his aim, pointing his hand towards Geralt again. The flames begin to gather at his hand. Geralt scrambles to his feet and runs out the door before the blast hits him. He has no sword, no weapons. For whatever reason, this memory has turned hostile. He has to get out of here.

He slams the door shut behind him, back into the stone hallway, and retreats a few steps back. There. The memory won’t be able to follow him, surely. It’s just a memory.

The door opens.

Geralt doesn’t wait to see who comes through it. He already knows. He just starts running.

Behind him, he senses something hot approaching. Instinctively, he throws himself down. The fire shoots past him, above his head.

There’s nowhere to dodge or hide here. He needs to get to Kaer Morhen. Automatically, he casts Quen – and is surprised when the power washes over him. He may not have his swords, but he’s not entirely defenceless.

Geralt gets to his feet and carries on running. Another fireball is heading his way. He presses himself against the wall. Quen stops him from getting burnt as it passes dangerously close to him.

This time, he turns around and casts Aard. A force of wind races towards the man, knocking him to his feet just as his hand was engulfed in flames again. The fire extinguishes. Geralt uses the time to race back down the corridor, towards the light. Closer and closer. He dodges another fireball, this one just passing over his shoulder.

At last, he bursts into the light. Two paths stretch out before him. There, the one on the left. The path to Kaer Morhen.

A fireball lands directly on Geralt’s back.

The force knocks him to the ground. Only his Quen, which has shattered, has saved him from being burnt.

He barely has time to get up when the man grabs him by the neck. Geralt sees a face that is blurred, like smudged paint.

Before he can cast Igni, the man throws him again. Much more strongly than Geralt expected. He hits his head against the path, stunning him long enough for the man to stand over him. This time, his hands glow with black fog. Strange shadows erupt from his arm, fly towards Geralt. They should be made of nothing. They should pass through him, around him. Yet they grasp him tightly, lift him into the air. Extensions of this man’s arm. Geralt can barely move his own arms, struggling to try and cast Igni.

The man begins walking forwards, bringing Geralt with him. But they’re not going down the path to Kaer Morhen. Around him, Geralt can see desert mountains. The ground is dry and parched, strange shrubs growing through the cracks.

The further the man walks, the tighter Geralt’s head seems to become. He gets his hand free from the gripping smoke, but he can’t remember how to cast the sign. There’s a sharp pain in his head, one that interferes with his thoughts, seems to block them, separate his senses from his mind. The further they walk, the stronger it gets. He can’t think anymore. His hand drops to his side. He can’t struggle anymore. The pain erases everything. He feels blood dripping across his lip and down his chin. His eyes water, yet feel horrid and dry.

He can’t go further. He can’t go here.

Gritting his teeth, he forces his hand to rise. His fingers work on muscle memory alone. He casts the sign, and a short burst of flames shoots forwards. It does nothing. The man’s cloak catches aflame slightly, so he pauses to pat it out.

Then his body jerks. His clothes become enwreathed with green flames.

And the man disintegrates into fiery dust. Crumbles to the floor. The smoke arms vanish, and Geralt drops to the ground heavily.

Ameer stands some distance away with his arm outstretched, fingers still poised from the spell. He regards the dust with horror and confusion.

Geralt can’t move. He can feel blood pouring from his nose, but he can’t move to escape from Ameer’s path.

Quickly, Ameer runs over and bends down by Geralt. He tries to pull Geralt to his feet but quickly realises Geralt can’t walk. With strength that Geralt is too pained to be surprised at, Ameer grabs him and hoists him over his shoulder. Slowed by the added weight, he hurries from his path, back to the junction at the hall of memories.

Now, the agony in Geralt’s head begins to lessen. His thoughts become clearer, less blurred by pain. He pats Ameer’s arm, who carefully puts him back down. But his body is exhausted; when he tries to walk by himself, he falls again, almost as weak as when he was poisoned. He promptly collapses onto the ground, lying on his back, gasping for breath. Ameer kneels worriedly down next to him, fretting and fussing as he tears some fabric from his sleeve and wipes away the blood from Geralt’s nose. He’s trying to ask something, but Geralt can’t concentrate. He closes his eyes, and the simple action helps to dissipate the pain a little.

Allowing his body to rest, Geralt remains that way, eyes shut and lying still. Ameer mops up the blood gently, then busies himself with checking Geralt’s vital signs.

Eventually, the last residual pain from his head fades away. Geralt opens his eyes tentatively, seeing Ameer’s anxious face looking down upon him. The pain is gone, but he feels exhausted. He can’t even lift up his hand. “What…What the hell was that?”

Of course, Ameer doesn’t answer. But he looks very concerned. He looks up at the stone memory corridors, utterly confused and worried. He doesn’t know what happened, does he? Or rather, why it happened.

When Geralt interacted with Ameer’s memories before, they simply crumbled to dust. None of them could see Geralt, or knew he was there. Because they were simply memories. Nothing more. A scene to be replayed over and over.

Yet this one saw Geralt. This one knew he was there, and tried to attack him. Not only could he leave the scene of his own memory, not only could he cast offensive magic, he also knew that Ameer’s path would hurt Geralt without being hurt himself. Only Ameer could truly damage the man and send him back to dust.

Who was he? 

Was that some strange, unrelated side effect of whatever magic is keeping Geralt in this medallion? Or was it because of the threat Ameer knows nothing about?

He looks up at Ameer. How can he ask? He has no energy to lift his hand and tap him, catch his attention, but Geralt finds himself pulling a blank at how to communicate this question anyway. Not that Ameer would have a way to communicate the answer.

Sighing, Ameer smooths back Geralt’s hair, looking worriedly up at the stone corridor frequently. They stay that way for a while, resting and allowing the energy to slowly seep back into Geralt’s body.

Eventually, Geralt shifts. With a lot of effort, he sits up, body protesting at the movement. He should tell Ameer that he’s fine now. He tries to convey that message to Ameer, tries to at least smile, but Ameer still stares down the corridors anxiously.

“Do you know what that was?” Geralt asks.

Ameer stands up, then pulls Geralt carefully to his feet. He takes Geralt’s hand in his own, then points at him, then down at the corridor.

In this weakened state, it takes Geralt a few moments to figure out what Ameer wants. “…You want to go back in? Are you sure?”

Again, Ameer points at Geralt with his free hand, then down at the corridor.

“…You want me to show you the door where the memory came out of.” Geralt guesses. He has no idea what else it could be.

Fighting down his nervousness, Geralt enters the corridor of memories once more, this time leading Ameer along with him.

The place is like a maze, but witchers have good directional instincts, and Geralt is soon able to find the various doors he opened. They’re still slightly ajar, and he can hear noise coming out from within them. It sounds like the memory of the hospital.

Frowning, Ameer closes it tightly, then scowls. Uh oh. If he was annoyed at one door, when he finds out how many Geralt opened…

They move on. The more opened doors they pass – meeting Yenenfer, the murdered traveller, the market place – the more irritated and exasperated Ameer gets. When they come to the memory of Ameer being reunited with his Fox Mother, he turns to Geralt with a look of pure anger and thumps him on the arm. ‘ _That’s for invading my privacy_!’ his thunderous expression tells Geralt.

At first, Geralt averts his gaze, rubbing his arm and feeling sheepish. Then he remembers that Ameer has seen many _very_ intimate scenes in Geralt’s memories, too.

So he scowls back at Ameer, pointing to the aguara, then over at Geralt’s doors. _You went into my memories, too!_

At this, Ameer falters, his anger abating somewhat. Now it’s his turn to feel sheepish.

Soon, they reach the dreaded door – the memory of the ship. Rather than being only open ajar, it’s wide open. Geralt can hear creaking wood and the sound of crashing waves from within.

A few paces away, Geralt’s body freezes. His legs become firmly rooted to the ground. All those years of witcher training have not been wasted on him; that memory was inexplicably dangerous to him. He has nothing to gain from going any closer again, and will only put himself at risk. He refuses to get any closer to it.

Upon seeing his reaction, Ameer frowns. He walks over to the open door and begins closing it. When only a crack remains open, he peers inside. His eyes widen. Firmly, he closes the door, looking unsettled as he hurries back to Geralt.

He points at Geralt, then points at his own forehead. Vigorously, he shakes his head and mouths the word ‘no’.

_Don’t go searching through my memories again. Don’t try to walk around in my head._

Geralt nods to show he understands. He doesn’t need to be told twice. If the memory of that man can act with its own will, and if walking down Ameer’s path caused him that much pain, he’s in no rush to go back there again. Being trapped in his medallion is strange, dangerous magic, and he’s certain aguara minds and human minds shouldn’t mix in such a way. After all the effort that Ameer has gone through to save him, he doesn’t want to mess up and fuck over his own mind, his own soul. 

He can't help but feel frustrated, though. That memory - he's certain it must be important, or hold a clue of some sort. But there's no way in hell he's going to go back in and start looking around again. Another opportunity to warn Ameer has been wasted. 

Ameer looks over at the door again uneasily. He still obviously doesn’t understand why that happened.

Pushing away his own unease, Geralt taps Ameer on the shoulder. With a mockingly solemn expression, he points to his own head, then at Ameer, and shakes his head. _Don’t walk around in my memories, either._

At this, the unease on Ameer’s face gives way to a smile. He nods, then holds out his hand. Geralt shakes it firmly. _We won’t pry in each other’s private lives again_. It’s as close to saying sorry as they can get.

Ameer begins walking back down the corridors, no doubt eager to get away from this haunted place. Geralt wastes no time in following him. Rummaging around memories is clearly dangerous, and he already has plenty to deal with right now. So does Ameer. He may not realise it yet, but his life is soon going to become filled with far more danger than even Geralt’s own perilous situation. Yet he’s entirely unaware of this fact, and Geralt has no way of warning him.

Unless…

An idea comes to Geralt.

Yes, rummaging around memories is dangerous, but…what if Geralt were able to show Ameer the memory he desperately needs to see?

No, that might be too risky, considering what just happened now…But it’ll be his own memories. Maybe that will –

He stops abruptly, almost walking into Ameer. The aguara has halted in his tracks, staring at a door they missed earlier.

The metal beam remains discarded on the ground where Geralt left it. Ameer carefully steps over it, and walks to the fortified door, a confused frown on his face.

When he looks inside, his face drops. He presses his hand to his chest. As if he’s received a physical blow. The very light seems to fade from his eyes.

Slowly, Ameer shuts the door. Slowly, he sinks to the floor. Slowly, he puts his hands on his head and draws his knees tightly to himself.

He’s very still. His only movement is the occasional heave of his chest. Geralt can’t see his face, can’t hear him, but he’s obviously crying.

And though Geralt doesn’t understand why, something is clearly breaking inside of him.

Silently, Geralt sits down beside him. There was a reason Ameer locked away that seemingly harmless memory. Geralt shouldn’t have unearthed it.

So he places his arm around Ameer’s shoulder. Without a word, Ameer leans into him.

They stay that way until Ameer slowly begins to fade, waking up into the real world, and leaving Geralt alone with his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation note: Ameer said 'I love you'.


	3. The Smell of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A book spoiler is referenced in this chapter towards the end (though I've already talked about it before in the story so it's nothing new)
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter and the next one (which I'll upload next week) were originally meant to be one single chapter, but I realised it was waaaaay too long and decided to split it into two. I hope you enjoy it!

_“-There’s payment. Take it to the Ladies, will ye?_

_-What the hell was that?_

_-Tis our pact. Ye’re a stranger, ye don’t know life here. It’s honest pay for their protection._

_-So, all those ears in the woods…_

_-Put it out yer mind, master. Ye soon be leavin’, and we must tarry on. Our young’uns, and their young’uns after ‘em. No gods nor masters watch over Velen. The land is no man’s. He who wants to survive must seek his own protectors.” – A conversation between the ealdorman of Downwarren and Geralt, upon the former cutting off his ear._

Velen.

As autumn reaches its final moments and winter marches forwards, the land has begun its annual death. Harvests are finishing, the fields ravaged by farmers and workers. Only dried grass and thick mud remains of the wheat and barley crops.

Regis wasn’t sure what he expected of Velen. Having heard so many stories about the no-man’s land, he expected worse in a way. No bodies hanging from trees, no dead littering the roads, nothing to the bloodshed he had been told about. But four years have passed, he supposes.

And though this land may be swampy and miserable, it’s by no means immune to progress. The most obvious sign of this is the new road.

Not soon after they cross the bridge do they see it. Wide, neat, professionally built. Grass and plants have been systematically torn up and buried to create this new road, rather than a path being created by countless wagons wearing down the dirt while following the same tracks. At the start of this road, Regis can see various signs have been constructed, all new and well kept.

“This road – it looks new.” Regis remarks, his gaze following its path far into the distance. “How long has it been here?”

“Don’t know, actually. Haven’t spent much time in Velen.” Zoltan admits. “It looks nice and new, though.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Elihal and Priscilla mentioned that Velen has been a target for development by Temeria and Nilfgaard. It’s a good route to reach Novigrad, you see.” Yennefer explains. “This road must be to make connection between the two countries easier.”

Interesting. It’s been four years since Geralt visited this land, searching desperately for his missing daughter. Back then, it was a no-man’s land. Regis wonders how Geralt would react to it if he was with them, how different it looks to him now. Of course, this is only one part of Velen – the huge region is made up of several chunks of land, often split up by the Pontar and its tributaries. The northernmost area, dubbed Greyrocks, is the one they’re travelling through right now. Regis wonders if the rest of Velen has received the same treatment.

As they travel, he sees that new signs have been erected, pointing the way to various villages and ports. Here and there, Regis even spies inns and roadside taverns, most of which look new and well-populated by travellers. Yes, travellers – they pass plenty on the roads. Most from Temeria, mostly merchants or craftsmen. Whenever they exchange greetings, there’s no warning of bandits, ambushes or monsters passed between them.

It’s…bizarre. This is not what Regis expected when he thought of Velen. Four years have passed, after all. That’s enough time for at least the evidence of violence from the war to be washed away from this swampy region.

But not quite. Not entirely. Beyond the road, the wilds of Velen still lurk. Old and untamed and gloomy. Beyond the empty fields, creatures squabble in the dank, gurgling rivers. Strange cries from animals Regis doesn’t recognise sound from inside dark, secretive forests, the hanging branches casting dingy shadow on all that lies within. And when they pass a large oak tree, Regis can still see old ropes hanging from the branches. Nooses. A hang man’s tree.

Yes, the road is new and convenient for their horses and Dulla’s caravan. Perhaps it really is a sign of progress. But Regis wonders how deep this supposed development really runs, or if it’s just a bandage slapped onto the surface. Shallow, superficial, ignoring the real problems this area may face.

But no matter how interested Temeria and Nilfgaard may be in developing this area, there is one thing they cannot change. A strange energy in the foggy, stagnant air. Something about the rustling trees, the waving grasses and the bubbling swamps that they pass. The distant cries of animals. The birds flying overhead – or lack thereof. There’s something here, something strange and hostile. It’s leeching that enmity into the surroundings, tainting them with its stench. Even though Regis has lived on this world for 400 years, this land feels alien to him.

He’s not the only one who has noticed. Tatanu flies overhead once, and stops to converse with a pack of other ravens. Regis watches them squawk and squabble. When Tatanu returns, he sits on Regis’s mule and does not move again.

_I no want fly land-water land._

_What is it? What did those ravens say?_

_Ravens scared. Ravens say land-water land smell bad. Ravens say land-water land sick._

_The swamp is sick? What do you mean?_

_Land-water land sick smell bad. Ravens want leave._

He explains no further, leaving Regis with an uneasy foreboding.

The rest of his party must feel it, too. Zoltan leads the group solemnly, not making a single comment or joke. This was a place of war, of violence and torment. Beneath this nice new road, how many bodies are buried? Soldiers and civilians alike. Everyone was affected. The famines and diseases, loved ones lost in battle, or those who were slaughtered by pillages. Men, women, children, humans, elves, dwarves. No one escaped the unflinching brutality. Wars are truly the finest examples of humans’ appalling capability of committing atrocities on one another. Zoltan didn’t fight in Velen, at least to Regis’s knowledge. But he’s seen war before, and the fallouts of those conflicts. The violence and evil must all blend into one another. Velen is just an example among many more that have already happened, and many more that have yet to pass, but most undoubtedly will.

So Zoltan says very little. He rides ahead silently, eyes on the roads and trees where bodies once swayed by a noose in the wind.

Yennefer, too, is affected by this region. Perhaps she is thinking of her daughter – she almost died among these swamps and bogs, didn’t she? The Crones wanted to eat her, that’s what Yennefer said. Her daughter survived – barely – but she knows many others were not so lucky. Not just crones, but war and violence breeds evil thoughts among normal humans. Regis has seen such acts before, during times of war and strife; humans stabbing each other over a single loaf of rotting bread in their desperation and hunger. In such times, the value of human life drops to shockingly low levels. Taking another person’s life can be as easy as breathing, given the right stressful circumstances. Yet Yennefer said it was thanks to the actions of a baron that Ciri survived this land. An act of kindness in a land of viciousness. No doubt she feels wary here, caution at the forefront of her mind. Yennefer is a sorceress. She knows only too well the duality of humans, how quickly normal people fluctuate between selfless kindness and ruthless violence. The fact that they travel on a new road changes nothing. These people will always exist. So every now and then, she looks over her shoulder and watches the road carefully, looking for any other riders who might approach them.

Ameer rides behind her, also alert and on edge. Something about him seems different today…Ah. He’s wearing a perfume or scented cream of some kind, from the oils Dulla gave him yesterday. Jasmine flowers and citric oranges. It smells nice; far more pleasant than these swampy lands, certainly. Maybe that’s why he’s decided to wear it.

He most likely feels similarly to Regis. After all, they are both strangers to this land, yet sense better than anyone else the strange evil in the air. Regis has his vampiric intuition, and he is certain Ameer has something similar as an aguara. Even if he had not been told about the Crone, he would still sense her. And he would still be worried. For not only can Regis and Ameer both sense the Crone’s presence, far off in the distance, but they can tell how dangerous she is. This is not a being to underestimate. And Ameer isn’t just looking out for himself. He carries the wellbeing of someone else with him. Geralt’s soul, hanging around his neck with such fragility, is being exposed to this dangerous realm. Ameer’s vulnerability is Geralt’s vulnerability. If Ameer gets hurt or killed, then Geralt too will most likely perish. So Ameer gently touches the medallion beneath his clothes as he rides, absent-minded and somewhat downcast, occasionally taking it out to run his fingers over the metal and check for any damage.

Surprisingly, Dulla is the least affected by this region. That’s not to say he’s enjoying himself; he seems nervous and constantly checks that his cargo is securely attached. Every time a traveller passes them, no matter if they seem friendly, he always gives them a wide berth. He looks upon the boggy fields and stagnant water with disgust. But he doesn’t share the same haunted look in his eyes, the same worry and dread, that the rest of the party does. Here, in the northern kingdoms, he has had many cultural barriers and environmental differences to overcome. Most likely, these have not all been easy. And if he arrived roughly four years ago, then he arrived at a time the kingdoms were still filled with chaos as Nilfgaard invaded the north. Dulla seems to be a careful man, and one who has already been greeted with the north’s vicious welcome before, when he was attacked and his merchandise stolen. To him, travelling along any roads between cities is dangerous, and those that could attack him are completely different to those in Ofier, making them harder to reason with. Velen is no different to Redania, Kaedwen, Aedirn or the other Northern kingdoms in this regard. So, Velen is no more dangerous and frightening to him than travelling through Redania was.

Fog rolls across the fields from the surrounding rivers and swamps, giving a chill to the air. Ameer shivers and wraps his green woollen cloak more tightly around himself. Damp sets in uncomfortably on their clothes, making the cold even more severe. Travelling in such condition makes them feel sluggish, drained of energy. Or maybe it’s the Crone’s unseen influence?

It doesn’t take long for that influence to become seen.

They find it when they stop for a break near a construction site. A new building – a bath house, it looks like – is being built. Three men are sitting on a stack of timber, eating hot soup while they shiver and complain. They’re speaking in Nilfgaardian, Regis notes. Two are dressed in slightly worn clothes, and are considerably well built. Construction workers, perhaps? The other is donned in a more refined outfit that makes him look out of place with his companions – until Regis sees that his bag is filled with parchments and measuring equipment. An architect, then.

“May we stop for a moment?” Dulla calls to the group. “I think something is caught in one of my wheels.”

“Aye, go for it.” Zoltan pulls his horse to a halt. “If something’s trapped, you don’t want it damaging the wheel. Best get it out now. We’ve plenty of daylight ahead of us – only midday.”

As they settle on the side of the road, with Zoltan helping Dulla to unwedge a branch from a wheel, the three workers watch them warily. When Regis catches their gaze, they shout over. 

“Travellers?” One calls, his accent heavy.

“Yes. From Redania.” Regis answers.

For some reason, the three workers relax at this. “You need to stop and rest?” The architect calls over. “This area is very quiet, safe from monsters. Have lunch with us.”

Allowing the horses to rest and graze, they share a root vegetable and barley soup cooked by the three Nilfgaardians. They seem friendly – although Dulla makes sure to securely lock up his caravan – and largely curious at the sight of this somewhat odd travelling group. One tries to start up flirtatious conversation with Yennefer – very unsuccessfully. Dejected, he instead contents himself with comparing gwent cards with Zoltan. One worker takes interest in Ameer and Dulla, wondering what two Ofieri men are doing in a place like Velen. The last one, the architect, approaches Regis, eyes on Tatanu.

“Is that your pet?” He asks, pointing at the raven.

“Hm…Something like that.” Regis would prefer the term ‘friend’, but that might come off as a little odd.

“I have a pet back at home.” He explains wistfully. “A falcon, I call her Pluen. Beautiful bird. I bought her for sending messages, but the seller was fraudulent – the poor thing has a damaged wing and cannot fly properly. I kept her anyway, and now I am glad I did. Affectionate creature, you see. She likes being stroked. Does this one?”

“I can’t foresee how he’ll act towards strangers.” Regis warns him. “But you can try, if you so wish.”

The worker reaches out his finger towards Tatanu, who cocks his head and looks towards Regis.

_Friend? Bite? I bite?_

_No, don’t worry. He’s not attacking you_.

When the worker gently strokes his chest, Tatanu remains patiently still. The worker smiles.

“Huh. Soft feathers, like my Pluen. Thank you.”

Fortunately, the man doesn’t notice when Tatanu shakes out his feathers with an air of indignation. So he doesn’t like being touched by strangers, then.

“Not at all. We’re a very long way from Nilfgaard, and I’m sure you must suffer with homesickness from time to time; I hope this alleviates it somewhat.”

“That is true.” The worker nods knowingly. “I should not complain, really. I am a good architect – but there are many, many good architects in Nilfgaard, so work can be hard to come by. I should be glad I have this job, but…It is still hard being so far from home. Of all the projects to be assigned by the company, I end up having to freeze my arse off here in Velen.”

Hm. Isn’t that typically Nilfgaardian, Regis muses. Had he not been living in Nilfgaard for the past year, he’d be surprised at the fact the company that owns the building wouldn’t take advantage of local and undoubtedly cheap labour. But now he knows that they take their architecture very seriously in Nilfgaard. No doubt they’d find a Temerian architect ‘boorish’ and ‘uncultured’. A shame that none of the local villagers will be benefitting from this project.

He keeps these thoughts to himself, though, as the man continues. “But that’s enough complaining from me. My name’s Roderick. What’s yours?”

“My name is Regis. A pleasure to meet you. How long will you be working here in Velen, then?”

“We should have this finished before winter – hopefully, anyway. The weather is cold enough as it is, and our residences are not particularly warm.”

“Your residences?”

Roderick points to a small hut adjacent to the bath house. “This is where we sleep.”

“Not in any villages, then?”

“No, no. The villagers here are not particularly friendly to us Nilfgaardians. Between the war, and some conflicts about this road, they are ambivalent to us at best, and hostile to us at worst.” So that’s why they looked relieved when Regis revealed them to be travellers, rather than locals. “Fortunately, we have never been involved in any fights so far. We just keep our heads down and work hard – it may be better this way, so nothing distracts us from our project. I want to be as efficient as possible so we can go home before winter arrives and completely freezes us over! Ah, I am complaining again. Forgive my rudeness. Where are you travelling to? Off to Newmoor? I should let you know, the port is closed thanks to all that nonsense in Oxenfurt.”

“No, we’re actually planning to travel further into Velen. We can’t be certain, but it’s likely our destination will be Crookback Bog.”

At these words, Roderick pales. “Crookback Bog? Really?”

“You look troubled, my good man. Is something wrong?” He gestures at the road and the skeleton of the bath house. “Is such finery not present down in the swamps?”

Roderick folds his arms. “Well, Lettina is a nice town – very refined, very built up – but to be honest, it barely even counts as Velen, since it’s right on the edge. But going into those swamps…” He gives Regis a quick look up and down. “You are an elderly gentleman. Do you really wish to go there?”

“Don’t worry. I’m more resilient than I look.”

“I see…And that woman – you are a sorceress, yes?” He calls over to her.

“That’s right. Is there a problem?” She joins them.

“Not for me. But you must look after your friend here.” He gestures to Regis. “Travelling into Crookback Bog is dangerous for a young man like me, let alone an older man like him. So take good care of him. Don’t let him fall in the swamps and break his hip.”

Yennefer smiles sweetly, and places her hand warmly on Regis’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Regis. I’ll make sure to take _exceedingly_ good care of you. As long as I’m here, not a single hair on your head shall be harmed. After all, being so elderly and vulnerable and _frail_ , we must take care to keep you safe! So don’t fret, my _old-aged_ friend. I will look after you.”

Regis smiles politely, biting back a laugh. “Thank you ever so much, Yennefer.” Of course, Roderick doesn’t pick up on Yennefer’s sarcasm. After all, he has no reason to believe Regis is a vampire.

Oblivious, Roderick continues. “That’s good to hear. It’s not an easy or pleasant place to travel, after all. The central road doesn’t go through that area.”

“Really?” That surprises Regis. “Why didn’t you build there?”

“Well, we tried. Velen is a quick short cut between Redania and Vizima, Lettina, and other big towns or cities in Temeria. Our ambassadors wanted a road built running right through Velen, to make the journey quicker. The Temerian court agreed wholeheartedly. So we Nilfgaardian builders and architects got summoned straight away.”

Nilfgaard agreed, Temeria agreed – but what about the villagers living in Velen, Regis wonders? What did they think about a road going through their land, a project they weren’t even allowed to take part in and get paid for?

“I did not work on the road myself, but I know a friend who did.” Roderick continues, leaning in with a whisper. “He told me lots of stories about when they went to Crookback Bog. Monster attacks. Food reserves turning rotten. Sabotage – timber being stolen or destroyed. They tried to hire witchers and soldiers, but they just floundered in the swampy water and deep forests. It was as if the land itself was fighting against them! And after the statue incident, we gave up. Cost too much money and resources with no results. Now, we bypass Crookback Bog completely by sailing boats along the Pontar. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than trying to fight through those swamps.”

“What was the statue incident?”

“While we were clearing room for the road, one of the workers ended up burning some wooden statue. The villagers were enraged. They chased the workers away with pitchforks, threatened to hang them from a tree! The only reason the soldiers didn’t come to punish them was because the project was pulled, and we focused on Greyrocks instead.”

“May I ask, what did the statue look like?” Yennefer asks.

“Like that one.” Roderick points towards the edge of the road. “They creep me out, personally.”

Where he points, Regis can see that something has fallen over in the hedgerow. Ivy strangles a wooden statue, enwreathed in wildflowers and long grass. Regis didn’t notice it before.

At the sight, Tatanu lifts from his shoulder and flies over, circling the statue curiously. He perches on the fence, looking down at it and cawing.

_Scary! Old tree scary bad!_

That alone tells Regis all he needs to know.

“May we look at it?” He asks Roderick. “Or will folk get offended?”

“There’s no one around. Do whatever you wish.”

Frowning, Regis carefully walks over, Yennefer following behind. She turns and gestures for Ameer and Zoltan to join them.

“What is it?” Ameer stops in his tracks when he sees the statue. “Oh. Is that…”

“I believe so.” Regis kneels down to look more closely. The statue is covered in ivy and moss, and when Regis moves his hand closer to untangle it, moths and beetles quickly fly away, buzzing in the air.

“Here. Let me.” With a grunt, Zoltan grasps the statue and positions it upright. It’s so covered in ivy and moss, Regis still can’t see what it is. When he tears away the opportunistic plants to better see the statue underneath, the sight does not surprise him.

It’s a woman. Her head is bowed slightly, with long flowing locks cascading over her shoulders. She wears a flowing dress, and a pointed hat. Two arms are outstretched welcomingly – though one is missing.

The statue itself seems harmless. One could easily mistake it for a depiction of Melitele, or even of Freya if this was Skellige. But between Tatanu’s excited caws – _Look! Bad!_ – and the horrible dread that grips his heart, Regis immediately recognises who this statue has been carved for.

“It’s for one of the Crones.” He reports to the group. “In their more…appealing forms.”

Yennefer peers at it more closely. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, certainly. Do you agree, Ameer?”

Ameer nods, and does not step closer. He looks at the statue warily. “Yes. That is her.”

“Hm. Odd.” Yennefer frowns.

“How so? Thought everyone loved the Ladies, Crones, whatever, here.” Zoltan points out.

“That is true. But look.” She gestures to the weathered features, the stains of bird defecation, and plants that grow along the grain and are cracking open the wood. “This is not a statue that has been kept well. Not cleaned, not fixed, not looked after for a while. Doesn’t that strike you as odd, for a statue of one of their beloved protectors?”

“You’re right.” Regis strokes his chin, thinking hard about this discrepancy. “Well, two of the Crones are dead – maybe this statue was meant to depict one of them? And that’s why it’s been forgotten.”

“If someone I worshipped died, I would not abandon my shrines or temples.” Ameer points out. “If anything, I would work even harder to keep them clean and loved out of respect and remembrance.”

“Besides, I don’t think it’s one of the other Crones. I think this is Weavess. The one still alive, who Tye wishes to meet.” Yennefer says, examining it more closely.

“How do you know that?” Ameer asks.

“The hat.” Yennefer points to it. “When Ciri told me about the Crones, she explained that they each had a distinguishable feature – aside from being hideous and grotesque, of course. These three features are used to differentiate between them in artistic renditions. I don’t know about Whispess and Brewess, but she told me Weavess was normally depicted wearing a pointed hat.”

“Hm. Very odd.” Regis frowns. “So why is this statue of their sole remaining Lady so neglected?”

Ameer takes a tentative step forwards, his expression more confident. “You do not think they have _stopped_ worshipping her, do you? At least up here in Greyrocks, anyway?”

“That would be one possibility. A very surprising one, but a possibility all the same.” Regis looks upon the statue, troubled. If that’s the case, then he imagines Weavess is going to be a very unhappy individual. The kind of unhappy individual who is more likely to lash out at visitors than speak to them kindly. He hopes, for the sake of Tye – and therefore, for Geralt’s sake – that this isn’t the case. That this statue is just an outlier, an accident. The thought of Tye being killed by the Crone, and the cure dying with him, fills Regis’s heart with horror. Even the thought of Tye finding the Crone and living, but Regis and his friends having to speak with her themselves, paralyses Regis with fear. What a terrible task that would be.

All this from a single statue. Its serene pose, gentle and almost motherly in posture, seems to be mocking him. Despite all the moss and ivy, the insects, the pollen, the bird defecation, Regis can still detect the faintest scent of something…bad. Like Tatanu said. Something bad. Her aura. Her presence. No doubt Ameer can smell it too, who keeps his gaze lowered, as if the Crone is somehow glaring at him through the wood.

The statue suddenly bursts into flames, making Regis start. Violet fire consumes it, charring the wood instantly.

“Oops.” Yennefer says flatly, her hand outstretched, purple flames licking her palm. “How clumsy of me.”

Regis smiles. The dread that had settled in his heart abates as the flames consume the statue. The scent of burning wood wafts over them, smoky and slightly tangy, drowning out the Crone’s scent. Yet Yennefer’s flames are controlled; not a single wildflower burns in her wrath.

Though the detour is brief, their journey is still much slower than the day before. The horses are more skittish in Velen than they were in Redania, and their pace is slowed and sluggish in the miserable weather. In fact, it takes them much longer than anticipated to reach even halfway through the landmass of Greyrocks. By the time they reach the village of Mulbrydale, the sun has already begun to set. An immortal such as himself does not fear the dark, but Regis knows travelling in a place like Velen will be too dangerous for his mortal companions. Darkness breeds danger, in the form of monsters, wolves and humans.

And thus, it is a relief to meet the small village of Mulbrydale. It’s a surprisingly tidy village. Regis wonders if Temerian or Nilfgaardian officials have helped supply money to clean up the area? The pathways are relatively empty, each house lit with candles as the darkness approaches. The only folk around are shepherds, bringing their livestock back from the fields. Zoltan speaks with one, and locates the nearest inn for them to stay at.

At first, the shepherd just stares, almost slack-jawed, at Ameer and Dulla. Not out of hostility, but sheer shock. He’s probably never seen anyone from Ofier before. Ameer looks torn between frustration and amusement at this reaction. His hood is up to conceal his ears – there’s no harm in being cautious, especially when none of them know the area particularly well – but he can’t exactly hide his race. Dulla doesn’t seem to care, though. Perhaps he’s been in the northern kingdoms long enough to be thoroughly used to it.

“Excuse me?” Zoltan speaks again.

The shepherd, feet caked in mud, shakes himself. “Sorry. Inn’s just down the road, called the White Heron. You’ll be lucky to get a room, though, you will.” He warns them. He has a brown shaggy sheepdog sitting by his feet, so Regis keeps his distance.

“Why’s that, then?” Zoltan asks.

“They’re always booked full. People don’t like to travel Velen in the dark, don’t like to pitch camp out there either.” He rubs his nose. “Here’s not so bad, but you’ll find it’s worse the further south you go.”

“Further south? Why’s that?” Yennefer asks him.

“Well, things are always worse down there in the bog, miss.” The shepherd takes off his hat respectfully. “You look like a nice woman, smart like. D’you know magic, miss?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, been lots of fancy people like youself coming to this area. Witches and wizards and the like, some of ‘em sent by the Black Uns and others by Temeria’s court. Tryin’ to fix things. Not much luck, though.” He tells her. “Crops are struggling. Plants aren’t growing like they should. Here’s not so bad. Times’re a little lean, but we get by fine. Down there, though…It’s not good, miss. There’s something evil afoot in the bog, I tell you.” He points to the inn. “If you tell the owner there you’re a witch, I’m sure she’ll get you a room. We appreciate every magic person coming to help, see. Had lots of witchers come through, too.”

“Witchers?” Ameer tries not to touch the hidden medallion at his chest.

“Aye. To help with monsters. In Greyrocks it’s a bit quieter, couple of those blue ones in the rivers and the little goblin like ones in the caves. Nekkers, I think they’re called. Not a big problem. Down south in the bog, though, they’re always looking for monster hunters. Got some terrible beasts roaming around. One of them bird witchers went through recently, actually.”

“I see.” Ameer doesn’t look thrilled. No doubt he doesn’t want to run into a witcher who might not be as friendly as Geralt was towards an aguara.

“Be careful, all. War might be over, but Velen’s not in the clear yet.”

-

Despite the shepherd’s dire warning, within the warmth and dryness of the inn, the tense atmosphere among the party relaxes somewhat. And what a large inn it is – a spacious hall, three floors, a size that rivals that of the Chameleon. If this was in Novigrad or Vizima, Regis wouldn’t think much of it. But the fact that such a large inn could be found in a region like Velen surprises him. The quietness of the village outside was very deceiving, too; a substantial amount of both villagers and travellers alike are gathered in the White Heron, filling the air with ambient chatter and clinking of tankards.

Its size isn’t the only noticeable detail. The inn appears to be new, and is quite extravagant – with excessive décor of mounted animal heads, indoor plants and polished swords and other weapons displayed on the walls. The very opposite of what Regis would expect from an inn found in Velen. Slightly gaudy in its opulence, perhaps with the intention of emphasising the inn’s success in spite of its impoverished location. Showing off its wealth frivolously in a region where careless frivolousness normally ends in subsequent starvation or poverty. Expenditure for the sake of expenditure.

Oddly, though, there seems to be a sort of segregation marked by a set of stairs leading to the bedrooms. On one side, nearest the kitchen, the layout includes plush seating, paintings on the wall, and polished tables with floral arrangements in the middle. The structure of the room, the placement of wooden beams and pillars, reminds Regis strongly of rustic Nilfgaardian architecture that he often saw while living there the past year. Once again, it seems that Nilfgaard has invested in this area, then, and no doubt used their own architects and builders rather than utilising existing workers in Velen. Travellers like themselves – Regis can tell by their accents when they speak to each other, and from their fine clothes – are gathered at this side.

On the other side, the inn takes the form of a more basic tavern. A nice one, but with a simpler layout: long wooden tables and benches, a few mounted animal heads, floral patterns directly painted on the wall in a more Temerian style of decoration. This side seems to be more frequented by the villagers of Mulbrydale, and is a little rowdier with laughter, chatter and gwent games.

The check-in for booking rooms is located on the side more frequented by travellers, and Dulla leads them to a table after ordering some food. “This is a very nice inn. Far nicer than I expected.”

“Yes. Though I wonder what it would look like if the road hadn’t been built – if Velen hadn’t been a convenient route to Novigrad.” Regis muses. This surprisingly grand inn is no doubt an important source of income for the village. But it clearly relies heavily on travellers, accentuated by the difference between the two sections of the inn. If not for the road, if not for those wealthy Nilfgaardians and Temerians wanting an easy route into Redania, would this village have received such attention and investment? Or would it have been ignored? He wonders if the villagers themselves ask that question. From the occasional dirty glance they throw towards this side of the inn, Regis assumes they’re not happy about their dependency on foreign travellers. 

That doesn’t change the fact they all feel relieved at not having to camp outside in Velen, though none of them confess this. Sitting inside in the warmth, with a hot meal and warm drink, brings them all considerable comfort – particularly Dulla. Today he is the attentive student, as Zoltan explains to him the relationships between Nilfgaard and the northern kingdoms it occupies, since his destination of Toussaint is a vassal state as well.

“There was a lot of debate. First, the Nilfgaardians wanted to put one of theirs in charge of Temeria. A cousin of the emperor or something like that, like what they do in Toussaint. Of course, no one wanted that. The people who…arranged Temeria’s independence certainly didn’t like the idea.”

“The people who arranged the independence?”

“Rebels called the Blue Stripes. They did a lot of guerrilla warfare against the Nilfgaardians, caused all sorts of problems. Nilfgaard promised Temeria would be an independent vassal state if they stopped, which they did.”

“Ah.” Dulla nods. “So having a Nilfgaardian ruler would go against what they were promised?”

“Aye, exactly.”

“Who is in charge, then?”

“It’s…a little complicated. The people with direct claim to the throne would be Foltest’s heirs. His first daughter, Adda the White, married King Radovid, may he not rest in peace. Most Temerian nobles saw that as a betrayal to Redania, none wanted her on the throne. She’s been demoted to a noble now anyway. The only other one with Foltest’s blood is his bastard daughter, Anais. Problem is, she’s very young, far too young to rule. It’s a miracle she survived through the Third war, to be honest. She’ll be perfectly safe now though. Vernon Roche and Ves guard her fiercely. Anyway, they decided that her mother Maria Louisa La Valette would rule as a regent until her daughter was old enough.”

“Really? Even though she has no royal blood herself?”

“Aye. She supported Nilfgaard during the Third War, since they were the ones who helped her escape the violence, while Foltest stormed her castle and tried to have her son killed. She was good buddies with one of Emhyr’s advisors too.”

“Oh, I see. Someone with good standing among the Nilfgaardians.”

“Aye, while her daughter Anais, being the last of Foltest’s blood, appeases the Temerians. Everyone wins.”

Dulla smiles knowingly. “Hm. As much as you can win when your country now belongs to Nilfgaard.”

Zoltan laughs at this. “You get it.”

This is all interesting information for Regis – he hasn’t particularly been keeping up to date with Temeria’s political happenings. However, he finds himself struggling to listen. For something over at the bar has caught his attention.

“That man over there at the bar,” he whispers to Yennefer, “his ear is gone.”

She pauses in her note taking, looking over at the elderly man. Regis continues, “I wouldn’t have mentioned anything – accidents can happen – but I’ve spotted at least three other people here with an ear gone too.” He gestures subtly to another old man, and an old woman sitting at a different table.

Yennefer looks troubled at this. She leans forwards, whispering to him.

“The Crones…One form of their payment was ears.”

Regis frowns. “Ears?”

“After being granted a favour, a villager would cut off their ear and leave it on an offering stone.”

“Why?”

“They used the ears to monitor the forests and villages.”

Regis shakes his head. “Disgusting.”

Yennefer stares at the villagers. “Those seem to be old wounds, though, on the elderly population. I wonder if people have been getting favours from the surviving Crone or not…By the looks of the statue we found earlier, I’d wager not. Even so, it’s quite unnerving to see in person.”

Regis glances at the wound. He’d have a better idea if he examined them closely, but he can tell they’re not fresh. “I suppose we could ask?”

“Hm…perhaps later. There’s something else we need to do.”

All the while, Ameer seems to have only been half-listening to the conversation. He seems pensive and dejected as he slowly stirs trout and wild onion stew, a mug of nettle tea cooling next to him. His brow is furrowed with concentration, nodding along to the conversation he clearly isn’t paying attention to.

Yennefer catches Regis’s eye, nodding her head towards Ameer. She’s going to tell him about what she’s learnt.

“…Ameer.” She sits next to him. “…May we talk?”

“Yes, of course.” He puts down his spoon and stifles a yawn. “What is it?”

“…You look tired. Did you sleep well?” She asks.

“Ah, I had another strange dream, you see. About…Geralt.”

Regis leans closer. “You did? What happened in the dream? What did you see?”

Ameer turns to Yennefer, and proclaims loudly, “Yennefer, Geralt is a cheating whore.”

Yennefer, taken aback by this sudden declaration, shushes him hastily. “Ameer, don’t say such things so loudly!”

“Whore is not the kindest word to use either.” Regis comments.

Ameer just shrugs. “Am I wrong? No. I am surprised you put up with it, Yennefer. I hope you tell him off when he does such things.”

“Oh, I do, believe me.” Yennefer insists.

“Are you sure?” He looks genuinely concerned for a moment. “It pains me to think that he is making you sad.”

“He’s not. That was in the past.” Yennefer asserts. “And it wasn’t one sided…We’ve both hurt each other over the years. In our immaturity and selfishness. He’s hurt me, and I’ve hurt him. But we’ve grown, starting with when we met Ciri.” Her face grows sad. “…We’ve grown, both of us. So you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I will always worry about you.” Ameer says fondly.

Yennefer smiles dryly. “You’re a real mother hen, Ameer.”

“I see that as a compliment! Besides, is this not the point of friendship? To wish nothing else but happiness upon your friend? To be outraged when they are harmed? Is that not the purpose of friendship?”

“I suppose you’re right.” For some reason, Yennefer looks lost in thought. Regis wonders what she’s thinking about.

“It sounds like a role you take most seriously, Ameer.” Regis muses. He’s obviously loyal to a fault – though Regis has a feeling that loyalty is not easily earned. Likewise, he pities any who hasn’t received that loyalty and acts out against the people he loves. “I hope you were not too harsh to Geralt.”

“We cannot speak properly in that world – there is no noise outside of memories – but I made my distaste very clear, trust me.” He tilts his head. “That reminds me. Who is Natanis?”

“Natanis?” Just what memories did he see? “Natanis, if we’re thinking of the same person, is a succubus who resides in the city of Beauclair, in Toussaint.”

“You had fuck with a succubus?!” Ameer exclaims.

Regis feels his face go red. “Please, I implore you to not use that language when speaking of such things.”

“No more lessons from Zoltan for you.” Yennefer adds. “Besides, it’s not _to have fuck_. It’s _to fuck_. You see?”

“Oh, my mistake. Slang in Common never works linguistically how I expect it to. So, he fucked, she fucked, you fucked, yes?”

“Yes, exactly.” Yennefer confirms.

Regis runs his hand over his face in exasperation. “That’s _really_ not the problem here. Please could we refrain from using that word?”

“Like I said before – am I wrong?”

“Natanis and I had…a romantic relationship.” Regis explains hastily. “How do you know about that?”

“I saw Geralt mention it in a memory.” Ameer tells him. “I also saw a lot of things I would rather have not seen.”

“No wonder you looked so troubled.” Yennefer muses with a smile.

However, Ameer doesn’t smile back. A concerned expression casts over his face like a shadow once more.

“Well…There was more than just that…” He scratches the back of his neck, eyes averted. “I…Geralt…He was looking through my memories. And…”

He’s silent for a while. Staring down at the table, troubled. When he does finally speak up, his voice is quiet.

“Geralt…He viewed a memory. Of…Of when I had been captured. When I was on a ship bound for Skellige.”

Regis’s eyes widen in surprise. This is the first time Ameer has volunteered such information willingly.

“And…the man who captured me – a human mage – his memory acted with a will of its own. I do not know how, or why. But it came to life and attacked him with strange magic.” His brow furrows in thought. “That should have been impossible. It was just a memory. Normally, they will turn to dust if interacted with. But this memory attacked him – if I had not intervened and destroyed it, I dread to think what could have happened to Geralt. I…I do not understand. I thought the man who caught me and sold me into slavery was simply a crooked, cruel mage who was desperate for money. I had no idea he wielded such _power_ , that even his mere memory posed a danger.”

Regis and Yennefer both remain silent.

“I…All that time, he could have easily killed me…All that time, I had no idea what a dangerous man he was. It frightened me, honestly. And I am worried for Geralt now – it seems there is much I do not know about Scaradh. I thought he would be entirely safe within the medallion, but now I am not sure. What if that memory comes back and kills him? Then this would have all been for nothing.”

When he looks up at Yennefer and Regis, he frowns in confusion. For no doubt both their faces have gone a horrible pale colour at this description. “What? What is it?”

In a rare moment of speechlessness, Regis isn’t sure what to say. How to say it. So horrified by what Ameer has told him.

Yennefer purses her lips. “Ameer…That mage on the ship. The man who captured you and brought you to Skellige. We…We have reason to believe that was Tye.”

Ameer stares blankly at them, as if he hasn’t quite comprehended what she’s said. But as her words sink in, his eyes widen in shock. Now comes the confusion, and most of all, the anger.

“That was Tye? All this time…That was Tye? How…” His eyes dart back and forth in frantic thought. His fist clenches, shaking in anger. “I do not understand.” He looks suddenly at Yennefer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know this – when? When did you find out? _How_?” He demands. Something about her face must give it away.

“My mother.” He realises. “My mother told you?”

“…Yes.” Yennefer admits. There’s no point trying to lie. “How did you guess?”

“She…She mentioned that she chased the man who caught me. That she failed to find him. But I never asked what he looked like, and I never thought…” He lapses into deeply troubled silence. “…I should have realised. When his memory came alive and targeted Geralt so viciously, I should have realised it was him…Now I am very, very worried. Tye has such immense power that his memory almost killed Geralt in the dreamworld. What will happen when we find him?”

Tye almost killed Geralt again. Regis feels sick. When he slept last night, he was completely unaware that Geralt’s life was, once more, being thrown into danger. He sees the same realisation of horror on Yennefer’s face. Geralt could have died last night, and neither one of them would’ve even realised it was happening. He could have died at the hands of this cruel, disgusting man who sold Ameer into slavery, and they wouldn’t have even known.

For a few minutes, they remain in shaken silence: Ameer so distressed and enraged at the realisation Tye was the man who sold him into slavery; Yennefer and Regis horrified that Tye almost took away the man they care for so much once again, that even the spell of Scaradh doesn’t seem to be safe from his evil touches.

Regis is the first to speak up. He makes sure his voice is as soft and gentle as possible. “…Can you tell us? About what happened? How he caught you? I understand it might be difficult for you, but any detail at all might help us.”

Ameer stares down at the table. It takes him a few minutes to be able to speak. “…He managed to catch me off guard. I did not see him coming. I did not even _hear_ him approaching. Let me clarify: I am never, ever caught off guard. And I was very alert at the time. This never happens. To this day, I am not sure how he managed to sneak up on me.”

“Where were you?” Regis asks.

“At the docks, waiting to board a ship and leave for Nilfgaard.” So, he’s still avoiding the exact circumstances that led to his identity being discovered in Ofier. Never mind. “He knocked me out from behind. When I woke up, I was in a chest.”

“A chest?”

“Yes. A chest, or a box of some sort. I am not sure. I was bound, gagged, shackled with dimeritium. I was in darkness, and I felt as if I could barely breathe.” His face falls. “Truthfully, I was very scared. I thought I was going to die.”

Yennefer gently takes his hand. Regis places his own on Ameer’s shoulder. Silently encouraging him to continue.

“…I could feel movement – but not the rocking of waves.” He frowns in thought. “If I were to guess, I was being transported onto the ship. But I cannot be sure. I could not try to kick the chest lid, it was far too cramped, and I could perform no magic. I was helpless. Eventually, the movement stopped. The chest opened. And I was pulled out. His hood was up and he came at me from behind, so I could not see who it was. I could only smell it was a human male. He removed the gag and pressed a water pouch to my lips. I could smell the sedative, so I tried to resist, but he yanked my head back to force the water down my throat.” He sighs deeply. “After that…The ship was moving. I woke up alone on a bed with my hands and feet shackled. And I stayed that way until we reached Skellige.”

“Can you remember anything about him? Anything at all?” Regis asks gently.

Unfortunately, Ameer shakes his head. “Not much. I never saw his face fully, he often wore a hood and scarf to conceal it. Most of that time is a blur anyway. He put sedatives into the water he gave me, so I would not try to escape. When I was lucid, I was usually alone.”

Regis bites back his frustration. Still no clues towards his identity. “Did you see anyone else?”

“No. No one else came into the room – at least, not when I was conscious.”

“Did he ever speak to you?” Yennefer asks.

Ameer tilts his head in thought. His fingers brush the back of his neck. “Yes. No true meaningful conversations. Mostly him instructing me not to struggle or try to escape. I cannot remember most of it, to be honest. Except…for one occasion. He said something odd.”

Regis leans forwards. “What did he say?”

“…Occasionally, he would come in and unshackle my feet. He would make sure to blindfold me – probably so I would not see his face. And he would make me walk up and down.”

“Walk up and down?” Regis frowns. “Why?”

“Maybe to stop my muscles from wasting away. Or to stop the blood from going still, and obstructing my veins.” Ameer guesses. “Not out of kindness, I know that. When this happened, I would ask him questions. Who are you? Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?” He sighs. “Of course, he never answered. Except once.”

“What did he say?”

Ameer looks away. Refusing to meet eyes with either Yennefer or Regis. “…Honestly, I was very frightened. The first time he made me walk, I assumed he was going to throw me overboard. I was scared and I begged him not to. And he said, ‘I am not throwing you overboard.’ When I did not believed him, he said…‘I will not kill you. I _need_ you’.”

Regis and Yennefer glance at each other in confusion. “…He said that he needed you?” Regis repeats.

“Yes. I did not think much of it at the time. At first, I thought it meant he needed me for the money when he sold me in Skellige. But now, knowing that was actually Tye, I am confused.”

Yennefer leans her hand against her cheek. “Well, it can’t have been money. There are plenty of easier ways for a mage like Tye to make money than capturing an aguara and smuggling him onto a ship all the way from Ofier to Skellige. And to keep you hidden on the ship, which it sounds like he did if he smuggled you in a chest, he would’ve needed to pay for a room all for himself. Ships travelling distances that long try to take as many passengers as possible, forcing people to share rooms with strangers at times. Getting a private room wouldn’t have been cheap.”

“And he brought you to Skellige, of all places.” Regis strokes his chin. “He said he needed you, but he left you in the very place he would poison Geralt a year later, where only you could save him.”

“Yes. It is very contradictory.” Ameer agrees. “Perhaps he is not as clever as we thought? Or he simply did not know I could perform Scaradh.”

“Maybe so.” Honestly, Regis can’t make heads nor tails of Tye’s actions. Is he careful, calculating, dedicated enough to bring Ameer all the way to Skellige? Or stupid, foolish, and careless enough to plan an assassination in the one location with a magic user capable of performing a life-saving spell? And he must have known Ameer could use magic. Though he hid his Fox Mother status, Ameer used magic like any mage would in Ofier. In fact, he even performed Scaradh on one of his patients. Tye must have done research on Ameer before attempting to capture him, if he was successful in sneaking up on a Fox Mother and knew to use dimeritium shackles.

So what is he? Smart? Or foolish? A powerful mage, yet one described as constantly being nervous?

And why did he say he needed Ameer?

Still so many questions. Regis shakes his head. “Either way, there’s no doubt he’s clearly a very dangerous man if even his mere memory harmed Geralt. And you really don’t know how his memory was able to attack Geralt in such a way?”

“I wish I knew. I have only performed Scaradh once, and this never happened. And Scaradh is very old, strange magic. It acts in many ways I do not understand. There is a reason I waited until the last possible moment before casting it.” His hand hovers over his chest, where the medallion is hidden beneath his clothes. “The sooner we find Tye, the better. I feel uneasy the longer this spell goes on, in case there are other consequences we did not expect.”

“We have Tye’s image, but he could still try to hide his face or alter his appearance further. If we encountered him again, would you be able to recognise his scent?”

Ameer nods. “Yes. He smelt of flowers, and sweat, and something I could not quite identify. I will not forget the scent of the one who imprisoned me on the ship, not as long as I live.”

“Thank you, for telling us that. I know that couldn’t have been easy.” Yennefer squeezes his hand.

Ameer smiles weakly, and quickly changes the topic. “I did not realise my Mother had visited you. What did she say?”

Regis sees Yennefer’s hand move towards her chest, towards the hidden crystal, before she stops herself. “…She told me about your captor. And…She told me our quest is dangerous. So she asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Ameer shakes his head, sighing in exasperation. “That is very like her. I apologise for that. Do not worry, you do not have to bother yourself with such things. I can look after myself very well.”

Yennefer smiles thinly. She resists the urge to touch the crystal. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Before Ameer can pick up on her nervousness, Dulla sits down beside them with a tray of drinks. “Here, my companions! I bought us some drinks!”

Yennefer politely waves her hand. “Oh, I apologise Dulla, but we really shouldn’t.” She shoots Zoltan, who was reaching for a tankard, a harsh stare. Reluctantly, he lowers his hand.

“Why ever not?”

“We’ve got a long and difficult journey ahead of us. We really should be staying alert.” Regis explains.

“What harm shall one drink do? Besides, I want you to think of it as a thank you present. Tomorrow I will reach my port – I want to thank you for looking after me so well! Please, I insist.”

“…Fine. I suppose a glass or two won’t hurt.” Yennefer relents at last.

“Yes, I’ll have some too.” Regis takes a tankard. He has not much interest in drinking tonight, feeling too nervous about their journey ahead, but it’s not like this human alcohol will affect his body anyway. At the very least, he can stop the others from getting too tipsy – Zoltan, for example, who is happily reaching for a tankard.

Placing the tray on the table, Dulla reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle. He nudges Ameer, showing the bottle surreptitiously.

“Here. This alcohol is…different to our tastes.” He grins. “I think you will enjoy this better.”

Carefully, Ameer takes the bottle. On the front, Regis sees words in Ofieri he cannot understand, and a logo depicting a roaring leopard. Ameer stares down at it. For a moment, his face goes ashen. He looks utterly haunted.

Slowly, he pours a glass, and takes a sip. His face twists into a frown.

“What is it? Do you not like it?” Dulla asks.

“No, no…It just tastes _different_ to how I remember it.” He smiles emptily. “Funny how memory does that.”

Even as Dulla and Zoltan get increasingly festive as the evening goes on, Ameer remains sombre and muted. He’s not the only one. Yennefer only drinks half a glass of wine and barely listens to the conversation, glancing frequently at her bag where their map is. Regis, too, finds himself struggling to keep up with conversation. He tries to drink plenty – he can’t get drunk, so he might as well deplete the supplies so his friends don’t get too inebriated – and he tries to laugh along with the conversation, but he can’t stop looking at the villagers sitting by the bar.

They seem friendly enough. A group of men sitting in the corner look upon the group suspiciously, muttering to each other, but aside from them the villagers seem relatively amicable.

Yet those wounds…

He can’t stop looking at them. The scabbed over mess where ears used to be. They look old, but they obviously haven’t healed well over the years, been subject to break and bleeding. The smell doesn’t help. Healthy blood smells…delicious. Regis no longer craves after it, true, but it smells good. Infected blood smells like rot.

This blood is obviously healthy, there’s no rot, but…it’s not good. Something about it smells _off_. It unnerves him. He tries not to focus on it, but it’s almost impossible to ignore.

So much so, he’s relieved when Yennefer and Ameer decide to retire for the night and he quickly follows suit. Away from those strange, foul wounds. Yet the tension among his companions does not fade.

He, Yennefer and Ameer are sharing one room, while Dulla and Zoltan share another. It’s a relief being away from the noise of downstairs, to have a moment of peace. Just like the rest of the inn, the bedroom is unnecessarily extravagant. Three single beds and a small desk tucked away in the corner make up the basic furniture, while more decorations litter the wall to the point of garishness. Yennefer sits on one of the beds, pouring over the map. Her face is taut in concentration as she traces routes on the paper. As she does so, Ameer paces up and down in the room, his face edged with unease. He can’t bring himself to sit still on the bed for even a few seconds. Something has obviously agitated him.

Regis sits by the window, peering out into the fields. He stares out into the night, scanning the darkness for Tatanu. Eventually, he spots the young raven flying excitedly towards him. Tatanu lands on the windowsill, some squirming worms in his beak. He swallows them, and ruffles his feathers.

_How are things, my friend? Any sign of Tye?_

_No scar man._ Damn it. Well, that would’ve been too easy. _I look again?_

_No, it’s fine. You don’t have to._

When Tatanu hops to the edge and prepares to take flight, Regis frowns. _Where are you going? You don’t have to search for Tye anymore, he’s probably not here._

 _I go eat!_ Ah, he’s just off hunting. _This forest smell good. I eat lot before fly bad smell land-water land. I eat lot get fat, not eat in land-water land._ So he wants to stock up on food reserves before they reach Crookback Bog.

 _You don’t want to hunt in the swamp?_ Regis asks.

 _No._ Tatanu tells him emphatically. _Land-water land smell bad. Scary monsters old bad very bad old mean…????_

He then proceeds to tell him something entirely garbled and odd, something Regis doesn’t understand, before flying away. Rarely is he unable to converse with ravens, but in this instance, he honestly doesn’t know what Tatanu is trying to say. He’s trying to describe something, someone. Ravens understand the concept of races and species, but Regis doesn’t recognise nor understand what Tatanu is describing.

He doesn’t need to understand, though. He can infer enough.

“There are so many routes he could go.” Yennefer complains, massaging her temples, oblivious to Regis’s unease. “He could cut directly through Crookback Bog, he could go via Toderas and Benek – for all we know, he could be travelling by boat along the Pontar. I don’t know how we’re going to intercept him. And we can’t bloody well just wait at the orphanage for him to show up, a place we don’t even know the location of or how to get there!”

“There is something wrong with this room.” Ameer suddenly interjects, stopping in his tracks.

Yennefer frowns, finally looking up from the map. “What?”

“Something…” Ameer wrings his hands, looking around nervously. “Something is wrong with this room.”

“And what’s that?” Regis can’t sense anything wrong with it himself.

“I…I do not know.” Ameer begins pacing again. “I just…I do not like this room.”

“Maybe it’s just because we’re in Velen.” Regis suggests. “There’s something about this place that makes me feel uneasy, too.”

Ameer scratches the back of his neck. “I…I suppose…” He doesn’t look convinced, though.

“You should go to bed.” Yennefer looks back to her map. “We’ve still got lots of travelling ahead of us, regardless of the route we take.”

“Yes, yes…” Still unsettled, Ameer kneels down by his bag and begins searching through. Regis hears the familiar clink of a glass bottle.

“What’s that?” He spots it in the bag before Ameer can cover it up.

Ameer sighs. He takes it out, holding it up to the light. “A brand of alcohol from Ofier. Dulla gave it to me. But…I think I might get rid of it.”

“Get rid of it?” Regis frowns. He thought Ameer was desperate to regain Ofieri belongings.

“Yes.” He turns the bottle in his hands again, looking at the leopard logo. “…I knew the owners of this brand, you know. Well. I knew their son.”

As if the thought is unpleasant, he shoves the bottle roughly back in his bag. He stands up abruptly. “I want to go downstairs again.”

Yennefer frowns. “Why? We have a lot of travelling to do tomorrow –”

“I know, but I am completely awake. I might as well do something useful, go down and find out information. You said those people without ears were Crone worshippers – maybe I can find out something useful?”

Yennefer stares at him with confused scrutiny to her eyes. Ameer holds her gaze without flinching.

At last, Yennefer glances back down at the map. “…Fine. But don’t stay up too late. Like I said, we’ve got plenty of travelling to do.”

“I know, I will be sensible.” Ameer smiles, then slips from the room. When he’s gone, Yennefer sighs.

“Something’s wrong with him.” Regis guesses her thoughts.

“I know. And I don’t blame him. We just told him that Tye was responsible for his imprisonment. That same man visited Skellige again, and provided the poison for Geralt.” Yennefer shakes her head. “And Ameer didn’t realise. A chance for revenge against the man who has caused him so much suffering slipped by him, and he didn’t even know. Fox Mothers take vengeance very seriously, Regis. Ameer has explained it to me many a time. They view it differently to even the most vindictive human. It’s a way of life. It’s how they protect their own, by making potential kidnappers fear their renowned wrath. And Ameer missed out on his chance to kill Tye. It must be a heavy, humiliating blow.”

“Yes, you’re right.” But there’s something else wrong, he knows it.

Maybe Yennefer knows it, too. “He knows he can talk to us. When he’s ready, he will. Just like before.”

Regis nods. “Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” Though he wonders what exactly about this room distressed him so. Even Ameer didn’t seem sure himself, yet he could barely bring himself to even sit on his bed.

Is something wrong with the bed itself, perhaps? Regis sits down on it, but can sense nothing unusual. He checks the pillows – all clean, all normal. Maybe there’s something underneath?

He reaches down, hand groping under the mattress – and his fingers touch parchment.

“What on earth…?” He kneels down and pulls out a wad of…

Envelopes? About six envelopes, hidden under the bed. Frowning, Regis flicks through them.

“What do you have there?” Yennefer asks.

“It looks like whoever was here before us left some of their belongings.” All the seals have been opened, and the papers looks slightly worn, as if it’s been handled many times. There’s a faint floral smell about it. Curiously, Regis takes out one of the letters and reads it aloud.

_“To my Sweetheart,_

_I was so excited to get your letter – congratulations! Your promotion was a long time coming, I can’t think of a single person who deserved it more than you! When you return, we must hold a celebration for you! Mother can cook her famous cassoulet, my sister will play her recent composition, and I will create a very dashing doublet for you when you arrive – something to match my best dress! Of course, my father will try and drag you along to get drunk on ludicrous amounts of wine, but I’ll make sure to steal you back again._

_I understand that this means you will have more work, more responsibility, and it will be hard not seeing each other as often. But maybe you will be able to save enough money to move down here once your project is finished? Then we could see each other to our hearts’ content!_

_In the meantime, I hope these letters can hold at least some of the love I have for you._

_Yours,_

_Pivoine.”_

At this, Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Sounds like some naively love-struck couple. How many are there?”

“About six.” Regis passes them to her. “Pivoine sounds like a nickname. I wonder who exactly wrote these?”

She reads through the love letters. Slowly, her face saddens. Too late, Regis realises that she’s missing her own paramour. These letters are somewhat gaudy and soppy, so different to Yennefer’s style, but it must be impossible not to think about Geralt when reading such unabashed displays of love.

Quickly, Regis takes them back. “Whoever left them here might come back for them, so let’s give them to the barkeep in the morning.” He suggests, leaving them on top of desk, and quickly changing the topic. “Have you gotten any further with figuring out which route Tye might’ve taken?”

Yennefer sighs, massaging her temples. “No. I’m sick of looking over this map. I’ve not gleaned anything new. I’m sick of this, and we’ve barely even begun.”

“Do you think we should try to sleep? Heed our own advice?”

“No, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep right now.” Yennefer admits. “…Velen is so large. I have no idea how we’re going to find him before he reaches the Crone. And if we don’t…I really don’t want to have to find her instead.”

Regis sits next to her. “Maybe we should go downstairs with Ameer, then. If we can’t sleep. Drink ourselves silly.”

“No. I have another, more productive, idea.” She gestures to Regis’s bag. “Let me have a look at the necklace.”

At this, Regis feels the blood drain from his face. “You’re sure?”

“I said I’d help you. The lighting in here is better than it was outside – I’d like to have a closer look at the metal.”

Regis swallows. He forces down the dread rising in his throat, back into his stomach. This is important, this is necessary.

So he takes out the pouch and passes it to Yennefer. She pulls the necklace out of the bag, holding it up to the candlelight. Regis averts his gaze. Even looking at it makes his skin crawl.

“…It’s not dimeritium, that’s for sure.” Her palm glows blue, and she runs it over the chain. The metal shimmers dully for a moment, but the glow fades quickly.

“Hm. I don’t think it has any magical properties…” She extinguishes the spell. “And it doesn’t appear to be cursed in any way. I would have picked up on that by now, surely.”

“So…It’s just metal?” Regis asks, disappointed.

“Yes. Though I’m not sure what kind. I’ll need more precise equipment and resources to try and identify it.” She frowns. “Are you really sure that this can burn you? Gwenllian wasn’t mistaken?”

“I’m sure.” Regis hesitates. “…We can check for ourselves, though.”

“How?”

Slowly, his body feeling as if he’s wading through water, Regis walks to the small desk and places down a handkerchief from his bag. It’s smaller than he would’ve liked. Not much, but better than nothing.

Regis takes off his glove from his left hand. He rolls up his sleeve, and positions his hand on handkerchief. He shifts his right hand, elongating his claws.

“Regis, what are you –”

With one swift cut, he severs his left hand at the wrist. One clean cut. The pain instantly starts as blood gushes from the wound, spraying the stump, the handkerchief and the surrounding desk red. He inhales sharply, bearing the pain. It will stop soon. Tissue, bone and skin will grow back. He’ll be fine.

Yennefer has quickly averted her gaze, startled. “Oh! I…I see.” She’s trying not to sound unsettled. For Regis, the action is painful but otherwise normal enough. It must seem so uncomfortably unnatural for someone whose hands won’t grow back.

“I’m sorry.” He quickly covers the stump, which is already beginning to heal, with his other hand. “I know it’s not a pleasant sight.”

“No, no. I should be used to it. I’ve seen you do it before.” Yes, that’s right, in Skellige. “You just…took me by surprise.”

Carefully, Regis positions the severed hand on the handkerchief. “Would you be able to…?”

“Of course.” All uneasiness now gone, she approaches the desk, necklace in hand. With the steady hand of a sorceress, she places the chain down on the skin.

The effect is instantaneous. As soon as the metal makes contact with the flesh, a fizzling noise sounds out throughout the room. The scent of burning flesh reaches Regis’s nose. On the skin of his severed hand, bloody red pustules are beginning to form.

Regis has seen plenty of death during the second Nilfgaardian war. He’s seen horrors great and small. But something about the smell, the sight of the burn, repulses him. He clamps his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to block out the disgusting scent that makes him gag.

“Take off the necklace.” He implores Yennefer, desperately trying to focus on her lilac and gooseberry perfume, focus on her pleasant flowery scent instead of burning flesh.

She doesn’t have to be told twice. Hastily, she pulls it away, clamping her hand over her nose. Even she can smell the horrible stench.

Shoving the necklace back in the pouch, she sits down by the desk. “Let me try something. A healing spell.” Grimacing from the smell, she holds out her hands and begins chanting. Her voice is strained, so disgusted from the stench of the wound.

“Lámh a leigheas.”

Her hands glow, and the wound begins to shimmer with purple sparks.

And…Nothing happens.

The sparks fizzle and die. Yennefer frowns, and tries again more forcefully.

“Lámh a leigheas.”

Again, the spell glows brightly for a moment – but fades away into nothing once again. The wound remains unchanged, just as sore and stinking as it was before.

Yennefer’s face tightens. “Regis. Do you have a knife?”

“Yes, for cutting up herbs. Why?”

“Is it clean?”

“Yes, I sterilised it recently. But why?” Is she planning to dissect the hand?

Silently, Yennefer holds out her palm. Regis passes her the knife – and watches in horror as she uses the blade to cut her skin.

“Yennefer! What are you doing?” He frets, automatically ignoring the smell of fresh blood.

“Ow.” Yennefer says mildly, putting the knife down. He realises the cut is in the same position on the hand as the burn – diagonally across the dorsal side of the hand. It’s roughly the same size, too: a few inches long, but not particularly deep. Instantly, blood wells up and begins to spill across her hand, but Yennefer makes no move to wipe it up.

Instead, she holds her hand over the wound. “It’s always difficult casting spells with only one hand – and for less experienced mages impossible, but…”

Face taut in concentration, she moves her hand in fluid motions. After a few attempts, her palm begins to glow. Unlike Regis’s severed hand, though, the wound glows brightly and slowly begins to close itself up. When the light finally fades, the cut is non-existent.

“There’s nothing wrong with my magic, then. But for some reason, it didn’t work on yours.” Yennefer’s face tightens. “True, healing isn’t my best skill – Ameer is far better at it than I – but that was a small wound. I should’ve been able to heal it.”

Regis runs his hand over his face. His footsteps weighed down by dread, he walks to the window and opens it. Not just to let the horrible stench out – soon, Tatanu approaches the ledge once more.

 _Yes? Yes? I do help?_ He asks eagerly.

_I need you to send a message to Gwenllian, the vampire from Novigrad. Get the other ravens in the area to pass it on. Tell her…Tell her that healing magic does not work on the wounds._

Not understanding the severity of the message, Tatanu caws eagerly and spreads his wings, searching for other ravens to help pass on the message. Regis tries hard to ignore the horrible dread festering like rot inside of him.

The smell of his hand isn’t helping matters. Despite the open window, he can’t help but almost gag at the abhorrent stench. Yennefer seems to have gotten used to the smell, but for Regis, it’s still overpowering. He’s struck with a new wave of sympathy and respect for Gwenllian. He can barely cope with the wound on a severed body part, while she has this awful burn around her _neck._ Regis has a feeling that her various scented creams and garlands of flowers weren’t just to disguise her vampiric identity.

And she was burnt by this necklace over a week ago. It still hasn’t healed all this time. Yes, she was able to reduce the pain with analgesic creams, but the wound is still as red and sore as ever.

Instantly, a well of negative and fearful thoughts opens up in Regis’s mind. It takes a considerate effort not to be carried away by them. What if there’s no way to heal the wounds? What if someone else finds this necklace and uses it for harm? Or what if there’s more of this mysterious metal out there? What if Tye finds it? Tye, the mage so dangerous that even his memory was a threat?

No. Stop catastrophising. Worrying about things that haven’t happened doesn’t do a single jot of good. There could still be a cure for the wounds. Right now, this necklace seems to be the only example of the metal in existence. Tye doesn’t know about it – how could he? Gwenllian didn’t tell him about it.

He needs to stay calm and level-headed. Though the smell of the hand is making that extremely difficult.

“Could you burn it?” He asks Yennefer.

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to experiment on it more?”

Regis attempts to smile, holding up his hand. “I can repeat the experiment any time I want. My hand will always grow back. But I just…can’t stand the smell. Could you burn it? Please?”

“Of course.” Yennefer says gently. She walks back to the hand and holds out her palms. Violet flames begin to form at her fingertips.

And she hesitates.

Regis sees the confliction on her face. “What is it?”

“I…It’s nothing.” But she still doesn’t cast the flame.

“Yennefer, what’s wrong?”

“…Aer you sure you want me to _burn_ it?” She asks carefully. “Not dispose of it in some other way?”

“…Oh.” Regis realises what she’s insinuating. The face of a brown-haired man, with a voice as sweet as honey and a glittering jewel in his eye, instantly forces itself into Regis’s mind. And after that comes the images of those burning white flames. Consuming him. Tearing him apart.

“We could go outside and bury it.” Yennefer continues quietly, seeing the haunted distress on Regis’s face. “Or tie it in a bag, throw it in the river –”

“No. Don’t worry.” Regis smiles, forcing away the memory. “I’ll be fine.”

Yennefer nods, and reluctantly sets fire to the hand. As the violet flames consume the severed flesh, Regis again blocks out the creeping memory of white fire and the laughter of the maniacal mage.

He realises Yennefer is flinching, too. Maybe she can hear his scream in her ears, alongside the smell of burning vampire flesh.

“…This feels wrong.” She speaks quietly.

“That it does, my dear.” Regis looks down at the purple flames. “That it does. But we got the last laugh in the end, didn’t we?”

“…Yes. We did.”

A silence lapses between them. The purple flames grow over the severed hand, blackening flesh and curling skin.

“Do you think…” Regis’s voice seems to act with on its own accord. “Do you think there’s no cure to these wounds?”

“No. I think something must heal them.” She doesn’t stop looking at the hand.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I refuse to believe otherwise.”

Regis smiles. “I didn’t realise you were so optimistic.”

“I’m not. But…Geralt and I came back from the dead. You were burnt to nothing, and you’re standing next to me now. It can’t be incurable. It can’t. There’s no such thing as an incurable wound. I have to believe that.”

“You speak with much conviction.”

“If I believe that, then I can believe that we’ll find a way to cure Geralt.” She says simply.

The scent of charred flesh and crackling fire drifts around the room. Somehow, that still smells better than the wound itself.

“We will cure Geralt.” Yennefer insists, as if arguing against some invisible spectator. “We’ll find Tye, and we’ll cure Geralt.”

“I agree. Because I refuse to believe otherwise.” Regis repeats her words.

Silently, they watch as the hand shrivels and disintegrates into ash under the heat of supernatural flames. At last, they die into nothing, and the smell of fire fades from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always like exploring how I think the regions of the Witcher 3 might've changed after the events of the game, especially how the game endings might have influenced them. By the way, as always my names are very creative...Pluen just means feathers in Welsh (which Elder Speech, and therefore Nilfgaardian, is partly based upon).


	4. The Smell of Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of things that I meant to put in other notes that I forgot to, so I'll put them here:  
> Newmoor isn't a real location on the map - it's meant to be one of the abandoned ports that will become repopulated if you clear it of monsters or bandits. It's the one right in the south-east corner of Greyrocks.  
> Speaking of, I'm actually not sure if it's Greyrocks or Grayrocks - I'm from the UK so I automatically started spelling it as 'grey', but I've seen some people called it grayrocks instead. So if it's wrong, sorry about that!
> 
> Also (this is relevant for this specific chapter): I am really bad at gwent so forgive me! Any gwent info from this chapter I just got from googling it haha.  
> More importantly, in this fic (and I assume in the game as well) none of the main characters have their own gwent card in-universe: as in, that's only canon for the gwent minigames you can play. Not only would this cause plot problems in my story, but it would cause many plot inconsistencies in the actual game too - for example, the people of Velen think the Crones are 3 beautiful maidens, yet their gwent cards show them in their...less attractive forms. Another example would be the fact that Regis's card description is the 'men would describe me as a blood-sucking freak', which basically outs him as a vampire when that's supposed to be a secret lol. I always assumed that the game devs meant the gwent cards to be easter eggs, rather than breaking their own lore for the sake of a mini game, but regardless, in my story none of the characters have their own gwent card at all.  
> I think this is my longest author's note so far! Coincidentally, it's also my longest chapter so far too! I hope you enjoy!

“ _-What happened to the Lilies?_

_-Took ‘em down._

_-Took ‘em down? To hang a golden sun there now?_

_-I cannot show Temerian colours. They’ll come and burn the tavern down._

_-Maybe it’s true what they say? You fond of the imperials? You Nilfgaard’s whore?_

_-I’ll let that pass. I know grief eats at your heart._

_-You know shit. They hanged my sister – dragged her out o’ the cloister like a dog. Said Nilfgaard’s no place for superstition. That they don’t fear the wrath of the gods. And you, do you fear it? If not for Annie your child woulda choked on its navel-string. You owe your son to my sister attending the birth. And you don’t fear the gods’ wrath?” – A conversation between a tavern keep and customer in White Orchard._

The tavern is busy, but Ameer feels alone.

He’s sitting at the bar on the tavern side of the inn, where most of the villagers are gathered. The ale is strong, so he makes sure to drink it at a slow pace. The last thing he wants is an embarrassing repeat of what happened at the Chameleon. Really, he should be asking the villagers about the Crone, trying to gather more information about this mysterious foe none of them know much about. But he has no idea how to broach such a heavy topic. What if people react hostilely to him? What if it causes problems for Yennefer? He’s keenly aware how out of place he is here – especially now that Dulla has retired to bed. If this was Ofier, or even Nilfgaard, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d know exactly what to say, and how to say it.

But this land is new and strange. He barely just got used to Novigrad, and now he’s having to relearn all the new cultural and social norms and rules of this land. Though Ameer can guess quite easily that approaching a random stranger and interrogating them about some cannibalistic monstrosity is probably a social faux pas.

So he bides his time, drinking slowly to work up confidence, trying to figure out who best to speak with first, and what exactly to say. But his mind keeps on wandering.

In all honesty, he really should be upstairs, resting for the long journey tomorrow, not drinking ale in a tavern. But he can’t. Something about that room just…isn’t right. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, it makes adrenaline pump through his veins, makes him feel anxious and vaguely sick – and he doesn’t know why. That’s the worst part. He has no idea what’s causing it. Even now, he still feels shaken. The adrenaline is still saturated in his blood, and his mind has entered a state of hypervigilance. Each clink of tankards and slamming door makes him feel jumpy. Memories of Skellige make him feel this way, but there’s nothing to remind him of Skellige here. Why does he feel so frightened and alert?

It would have been easier to sleep, but the strange room stopped him from doing that. So his thoughts were free to roam, to think about Tye. To think about how Tye visited Skellige to give Carrik the poison. To think about how Ameer didn’t see him, didn’t even realise he was there.

Because he couldn’t sleep, he thought about how he missed his chance to get revenge against the man who sold him into slavery. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he’s failed to exact revenge against several others who have harmed him in some way: his Skelligan tormenters died, yes, but at the hands of others. Hands that killed them in far less painful ways than he would have done. And Olgierd von Everec…who knows where he is. Ameer could search the whole of Redania – the whole of the North – and not find him; he doesn’t know what he looks like, after all.

He tried not to think about it. Tried to ignore the strange feeling in the room, tried to ignore this burning rage and frustration towards Tye, his humiliation for failing his vulpess duties time and time again –

So he thought about Rohan instead.

And he couldn’t bear it.

That’s why he left. He had to get away from the room, away from Yennefer and Regis. Between Regis’s wise eyes and Yennefer’s knowing gaze, he can tell they both suspect something’s wrong. He trusts them both. He knows that he can talk to them freely, without fear of judgement. But he doesn’t _want_ to talk about it, doesn’t want to feel all that pain. And if they ask, he won’t be able to hold back the words anymore. It’ll all come pouring out, and he won’t be able to stop, and he won’t be able to cope with it. He’s barely holding himself together after everything that happened on Skellige, and he knows that if he speaks of Rohan now, he’ll fall apart. He is sick of being tired and upset and broken. He just wants to move on. So it’s easier to push it to the back of his mind. Ignore it, for now. He’ll tell them one day. Just…not tonight.

He realises the tankard is empty. Oops. He catches the eye of the barkeep, who tops up his drink in exchange for a handful of crowns.

“You and your friends have been good business for me.” She remarks, amused. “Especially him.”

She points towards a gathering of people around the largest table. Spectators are gathered around to watch an intense game of gwent between two people. One of them is Zoltan. Ameer hadn’t realised he’d come back down.

“Well, we are glad to support your business.”

One old man with a grey bushy beard splits off from the group and walks to the bar. He gives Ameer an odd look, and deliberately sits away from him.

“A beer.” He puts down some crowns on the table.

As the barkeep pours the man a drink, Ameer realises he’s missing an ear. The wound is old, but messy. It obviously wasn’t treated properly when the injury first occurred. Repeated reopening of the wound has turned it into a calloused, scabby mess. It must hurt, for the man itches it tentatively.

Yennefer said the ears were payment for the Crones. Maybe this man knows something.

“Are you in pain?” Ameer asks. “I am a doctor. I can help you.”

The man quickly covers up the wound with his hand. “Don’t need help.” He says roughly. “’Specially not from you.”

“Mark. Play nice.” The barkeep snaps.

“More travellers treating us like their own personal whorehouse, trampling our village and scoffing at our traditions – don’t know why you accommodate them.”

“More of this nonsense and I’m cutting you off for the rest of the evening.” The barkeep warns him.

He scowls at her, then roughly grabs his tankard and walks back to the gwent game.

“Don’t mind him.” The barkeep says, somewhat crossly. Maybe she doesn’t appreciate the old man driving her customers away with his foul-temper. “He’s a miserable old git.”

Ameer isn’t bothered, though. “I have heard worse.” Far, far worse. “There have been problems with travellers, then?”

“Not so much the travellers themselves.” The barkeep sighs. “No fights, if that’s what you mean. Of course we have a few nasty comments from them here and there – turning their noses up at us, you know?”

“Ah, I see. That is unfortunate.”

“Folk like Mark, they’re not happy about how the land has been treated, either. You travelled on the central road, I assume? Lots of farmland had to be sacrificed for that road to be built. They tried to say that it would be good for commerce, but when we found out that the Nilfgaardians would be building the road and profiting from it – and that they’d be running most of the new establishments that were going to be built – folk got pretty angry.”

“I can imagine that.”

“They tried to protest about it, but the Temerian court swooped in and told them it was ‘for the country’s best interest’. So, bye-bye farmland, hello road. And the Nilfgaardian builders haven’t exactly been civil to us either. They don’t get our traditions or religions.”

“That sounds difficult.”

The barkeep shrugs. “Lots of people complaining about it, but they forget there has been some good come from all this. The area’s been cleared up, and we do get more commerce thanks to the road. Not as much as promised, maybe, but better than nothing. Otherwise no one’d want to come here. I tell them that all the time.” She chuckles. “Though maybe I’m more optimistic because I’m the one making money off these travellers.”

Ameer glances over her shoulder. On the wall behind her is a sign displaying the Velen coat of arms: split down the middle, one half shows a bare tree while the other shows Temerian lilies. No sign of the Nilfgaardian emblem anywhere, no golden suns on a black field. Not that it’s needed, though. They make their presence well known in other ways. Like the giant road outside.

“This village is very patriotic, then?” He asks. “Ofier is the same – where I hail from. We are proud of our heritage and culture.”

“Every country I’ve ever known is patriotic. Each traveller what comes here thinks their homeland is the best, looks down on anywhere that isn’t home. But…” She trails off, looking back at the emblem behind her.

“What is it?”

“…For us, for folk like Mark, it’s not just about patriotism, see. It’s about…survival. If you haven’t seen war recently, you wouldn’t understand.”

 _But I will_ , Ameer thinks _. I am 300 years old. I lived through the unification of Ofier. Such an event did not happen with no resistance, no violence._ So he says, “try me.”

“Well…” She stays silent for a few moments. “Velen had a rough time in the war, didn’t it? Nothing but death and starvation to be found here. The Black Ones would come through and slaughter villages in the name of their empire. The survivors died of hunger and illness. Things’re better now, sure. But we were almost wiped out, practically. Our stories, our history, our way of life – almost dead from the war. Folk are working hard to keep those cultures alive, but when the Black Ones – the very people who caused all that death – stroll in and start hacking up our land for the sake of a road that’ll benefit them more than anyone else…You understand why folk get annoyed about it? ‘Specially when the Black Ones don’t seem particularly sorry about everything they did?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I try and make people see the better side of it. Folk might be angry, but they’re also forgetting how far we’ve come since then. Four years back, no sane man would travel through Velen. If you weren’t carved up by a Nilfgaardian troop, then the villagers would’ve probably hung a traveller like you in fear you were a spy.”

He frowns. “Really?”

“Times of war, folk get paranoid. Can you blame them? Wouldn’t happen now, of course, but back then everyone was afraid.”

So, four years ago, he might’ve been hung for nothing by these people? Simply for being so obviously an outsider in the wrong place, at the wrong time? And those friendly Nilfgaardian builders they encountered on road – four years ago, had they been enlisted in the army, they would’ve happily slaughtered Ameer in the name of their empire?

Things are different now, true. He sits in a tavern surrounded by villagers who aren’t trying to hang him from a tree. And the Nilfgaardian workers shared their lunch without complaint. But four years ago, either could have easily killed Ameer. And neither party seem to have any remorse about the bloodlust on their own side from back then.

Four years is not a long time at all to have such transformed views on the value of life. Such quickly changing opinions are frightening to Ameer. If something bad happened tomorrow – if plague came, or some other disaster – would these friendly people turn against him and slaughter him? Or if Nilfgaard decided to go to war again, would the friendly workers turn their tools into weapon and spill blood for the sake of the emperor?

He tries not to think too hard about it. In the past, he didn’t often contemplate such things. But after…

No. Concentrate. Ask about the Crone, about Crookback Bog. “Is that the same in the south? Where the swamps are?” Ameer asks innocently. “Are they friendly enough towards travellers?”

The barkeep freezes momentarily. Hastily, she grabs a tankard and begins cleaning. “I…It’s…Well, it’s different down there. I’d stay away if I were you.”

Ameer isn’t stupid. He can sense the obvious resistance. Time to try a different track.

“That man’s ear. What happened?”

Her face tightens. “Accident. In the fields.”

Ameer glances around the inn, spotting an elderly woman who’s also missing an ear. “What about her?”

“It’s nothing.” The barkeep says forcefully. “And if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut about that.”

Ameer immediately decides to give up on asking. “I am sorry. I did not know I was causing offence. Forgive me.”

She sighs, but her expression softens. “…Oh, that’s all right, you weren’t to know. You’re new here. Just…don’t go round askin’ bout the ears. And…” She leans forwards, voice quiet. “Don’t – Don’t ask about the Ladies.”

“The Ladies?” Ameer feigns ignorance.

“Old wives’ tales. They’re made up stories – legends and the like.” She keeps her gaze down, almost in shame. Her tone sounds practiced. As if she’s said this before. But as practiced as she sounds, it doesn’t seem as if she believes her own words. “But…they’re bad legends. People don’t like to talk about them. Not about the Ladies, the ears, not about any of it. Not up here.”

Strange. Ameer thought the people here worshipped the Crones, knowing they were real. But now they think the Crones are fictional? What changed? Besides, this barkeep just spoke of the villagers’ patriotism, their commitment to preserving culture that the Nilfgaardians almost wiped out in the war. The Crones, according to Yennefer, were a large and important part of Velen tradition. Why is she suddenly denying their very existence? Is that not counterintuitive to their goals?

Ameer decides against asking, though. He’s obviously reached an extremely sensitive area – there’s no point aggravating her any further.

“Thank you for the advice.” He says instead. “These lands are so different from Ofier, so I do not know these things.”

“Don’t worry about it. So you’re from Ofier?” She quickly changes the topic.

“Yes, very far from here.”

Behind him, Ameer hears shouts from the gwent table, making him jump. He glances over – Zoltan and his opponent are arguing.

“Settle down now! If you want to fight, do it outside!” The barkeep shouts over, then sighs and turns back to Ameer. “Good gods…Do you have gwent in Ofier?”

“Yes – though it is quite niche. Not many know how to play it. We learnt of the game from –” Ameer probably shouldn’t mention Nilfgaard, considering their conversation, “– our neighbours, though it is not as popular as it is up here.”

“Do you play it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, some more advice for you then – don’t play against them.” She points at the table. “See that man there? Derek, his name is. He and his friends are terrible cheats.”

“I see.” Poor Zoltan. “I will stay away from them.”

“Yes, do. You can trust my advice.” 

Including the advice about keeping his mouth shut. Ameer scratches the back of his neck, uncertain. His investigation has admittedly proven fruitless – these people really don’t want to speak about the Crone, for some reason. And the last thing Ameer wants to do is start a fight. He should abandon this line of questioning for the time being.

But…He doesn’t want to go upstairs, either. Back to that strange room and his own horrible thoughts…

Zoltan. He’ll wait for Zoltan, Ameer decides firmly. And in the meantime, he’ll ask around about Tye. Yennefer asked earlier when they booked rooms, but none of them asked over at the tavern side of the inn. Maybe he’ll find out something useful.

“There is something I wanted to ask – I was wondering if you had seen someone.” He begins taking out the portrait of Tye. “He has a noticeable scar on his head, and he calls –”

“Oh! You mean Witold!” She beams.

Ameer freezes. “Excuse me?” Wait, is Tye called Witold? _She knows Tye?_

“I see him all the time! He’s always coming through Velen, travelling around the place, helping people out. He often stays here.”

Ameer listens in disbelief. “He…He helps people?”

“Yes! Everyone in Velen loves him, he’s always killing monsters for us, or fetching us supplies. He never stays one place too long, though. If you’re looking for him, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

Ameer sits, stunned, still trying to comprehend what the barkeep has told him. Before he can ask any further, the door to the inn opens. The barkeep calls over. “Speak of the devil – Witold!”

A tall man walks in. Broad-shouldered, a sword at his side. He wears a long fur cloak, slightly damp from the weather outside, and a tunic embroidered with blue flowers underneath. Ameer is instantly drawn to his face. Not for his ginger hair, shorter on one side, and unkept beard, and not for his sharp blue eyes. Instead, it is the sight of scars that draws him.

The left side of his head has been brutally slashed. A particularly nasty one, curved as a sickle, runs around the side of his head, visible under his hair. This man has had many violent wounds to the head – and survived. For a human, that is very impressive.

Ah. Now Ameer understands. The barkeep misunderstood him, thinking he was describing this ‘Witold’. But this most certainly isn’t Tye. Not only do they look entirely different, they smell entirely different too. Somehow, Ameer is relieved. The idea of Tye being some wandering, selfless nomad who helped out the poor people of Velen – but still sent Ameer into slavery – would be too incongruous and angering for words.

“Witold, someone wants to speak with you!” The barkeep calls over, gesturing to Ameer.

“Oh, no – this is a misunderstanding –”

The man, Witold, walks over to him. “What’s this? You got a contract you want…” When he gets close to Ameer, he trails off, looking taken aback. “You smell nice.”

What? “…Uh…Thank you?”

“Been up to my neck in disgusting swamp water for days now. Makes a nice change to smell something that isn’t half dead or rotten.”

“Oh, I see.” Awkwardly, Ameer tries to correct the situation, but the man continues speaking, oblivious.

“What is it, then? Smells like flowers.”

“…Perfume. Jasmine and orange.”

“Huh. Never smelt jasmines before. It’s nice. Much better than these shit-smelling swamps, anyway.” He sits down heavily on the stool next to Ameer and takes off his gloves. The barkeep places a tankard in front of him – and doesn’t ask for money, Ameer notes. “So, you’re very different to my usual customers. Haven’t been hired by a mage before.”

“…How do you know I am a mage?” He asks, curious despite himself.

Witold gestures to Ameer’s clothes. “You’re well dressed, for one, and you’ve got nice clean clothes. Mages aren’t often dirty like the rest of us in Velen. They don’t need to be – they can cast spells from afar. You’ve got no sword, either. And your hands.” He points to them. “You’ve got spell callouses. Right on your fingertips, from conjuring magic.”

“Hm. You have a good eye.”

“Where are you from? Somewhere far from here, I’m assuming?”

“Ofier.”

“Ofier.” He repeats, eyebrows raised. “ _Very_ far then.”

Ameer smiles wanly. “…Yes. Very far.”

Witold sits silently with his eyes lowered for a moment, before taking a long drink from his tankard. “Well then, praise the earth and her never-ending beauty,” He holds out his hand and his face perks up with a welcoming smile. “The name’s Witold.”

Automatically, Ameer tenses up at the sound of the incorrect native greeting. Memories of mockery flash through his brain. Eoin, the only one who ever showed him any kindness, would sometimes ask him about his Ofieri culture out of curiosity. But when the other men found out, they’d use this new-found knowledge to ridicule him. He’s heard that greeting being purposefully mangled for derision so many times now – hearing it incorrectly instinctively makes him flinch.

But a quick study of Witold’s face proves him wrong: it shows no malice, no hatred or mockery. Only well-meaning obliviousness. His attempt, though incorrect, was entirely earnest.

Ameer lets out a small laugh in relief as the man continues smiling along confidently and unaware, his hand still outstretched. Amused, Ameer shakes it. Calloused and firm, but cold from the weather outside.

“Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation.” He returns the greeting, gently emphasising the correct words. “My name is Ameer.”

Witold realises his mistake. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” He runs his hand through his hair sheepishly. “It’s been a long while since I’ve spoken with anyone from Ofier. Sorry.”

Ameer waves his hand dismissively. “Do not worry, it is an easy mistake to make. Besides, I appreciate the effort. Not many bother to try.”

Witold glances away from Ameer and an expression akin to guilt colours his face for a second, before it is replaced by another relaxed smile. “So, Ameer from Ofier. What services are you in need of? I’ve promised a lady in Crookback Bog that I’d do a job for her tomorrow, but that should only take a few hours at most.” He takes another quick drink from his tankard and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “If your problem can wait that long, I should be able to get to it at sunup two days from now.”

Ameer better clear up this misunderstanding before Witold gets his hopes up for a job that doesn’t exist. “Actually…I am afraid there has been a mistake.” He explains awkwardly. “I do not have a request for you.”

“You don’t?” Witold simply looks surprised, and thankfully not irritated for his time having been wasted.

“I am here in Velen on…business. I was simply searching for another man with a scarred face, but…” he glances up at the scars on Witold’s head, which look even more savage up close. “I suppose that is not a unique identifying trait in this part of the world. I am sorry for wasting your time.”

“No, no, don’t apologise! It’s my fault, running my mouth off like that. Bad habit of mine. Side effect of being alone on the road for too long, I think. I can go weeks without speaking to another living soul sometimes – feel I’ll go mad with the silence.” He gestures with his tankard to the bar around him. “And there’s no better cure for silence than an inn, that’s for sure. Though I’m afraid in my excitement I usually end up talking the ear off any stranger unlucky enough to sit next to me.” He falters slightly, and looks around conspiratorially before leaning in to whisper to Ameer.

“Well, poor choice of phrase for present company maybe, but you get the idea.”

At his words, an idea comes to Ameer.

“You look cold. Let me buy you some hot food.” He offers. He’d been planning to leave this somewhat odd but amusing man, escape from the awkwardness of the conversation. But maybe he knows something useful…

“There’s no need, really –” Witold begins hastily, but Ameer interrupts him.

“Nonsense. You look hungry,” he touches the material of Witold’s sleeve, “and very cold. Your clothes are all wet, too. If you are not careful, you will get ill. Have something hot to eat, warm yourself up. My treat.”

Settling at a table far from the noise of the gwent game, Ameer pushes a plate of steak and kidney pie towards Witold. He’s chosen a table away from the other patrons, so as not to be disturbed or eavesdropped on. A fire blazes in a hearth next to them. Witold takes off his fur cloak, showing his somewhat mismatched tunic underneath. It’s decorated with elegant blue floral embroidery, yet it’s been kept terribly. The fabric has been ripped and stitched up several times. The collar has been fashioned clumsily with a fur pelt, no doubt to keep him warm. He rolls up his sleeves, showing more deep scars on his toned arms, and digs in – he looks hungry, but he eats slowly and with restraint. This is a man who has felt hunger many times, and knows to savour each bite with the knowledge he may not get another meal anytime soon. Ameer should know. He did the same in Skellige.

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he takes out his knife and cleans the hilt, feigning disinterest. “Your accent…You are Redanian, yes?”

“That’s right.” Witold swallows a mouthful of food. “Thought I’d have lost it by now. Still that obvious, then?”

“Well, we recently left Redania.” Ameer explains. “So I am used to hearing that accent now. Though before I came to the north, I would not have been able to tell the difference.”

“You been in the north long?” Witold asks, spearing a scrap of beef with his fork.

“Not long. A year.” He hesitates. “…There are many things I do not understand about this land. You are an ‘outsider’ too, yes? Maybe you could help me.”

Witold catches his eye, sensing the question coming. “Sure. Got something particular in mind?”

“Well, you mentioned the ears…”

“Ah.” Witold nods knowingly. “Don’t blame you for asking about that. Hard not to notice, isn’t it? I’ve seen it all across Velen. Here in Greyrocks, to the west in Crowsperch and the others, and especially down in Crookback Bog.”

“Yes, I noticed. I thought it was odd, but when I asked,” Ameer lowers his voice, “the people were…a little hostile.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Witold muses. “They do _not_ like talking about it.”

Ameer tilts his head, scrutinising Witold’s face. “Do you know the reason for these injuries?”

To his surprise, he finds no hesitancy or stubborn secrecy, unlike the barkeep. Instead, Witold speaks quite openly. “Oh yeah. It was their worship of the Ladies.”

Here we go. “The Ladies?”

“The Ladies of the Woods.” Witold pauses to take a drink from his tankard. “Crones of Crookback Bog. An old religion from this land. There were three of ‘em, from what I understand. And part of their worship involved cutting off your ear in exchange for favours.”

That’s what Yennefer said. It doesn’t get any less creepy upon hearing it a second time, though, and Ameer shudders involuntarily. “That is…very intense. I would not do something so drastic for a favour.”

For a second, something about Witold’s face changes.

It’s the eyes. Suddenly, the shadows around his eyes seem a lot darker and heavier. He sits still. His gaze cuts through Ameer, and it seems…distant. Absent. Ameer understands that Witold is seeing something else, something not at this table, not at this inn, maybe not even in Velen. He’s seeing something from the past, long ago.

“People do drastic things when they’re desperate.” He says, and his voice sounds empty. “Men have done worse things – given up more than just ears. Trust me.”

Odd. Ameer wonders what he’s remembering.

Just like that, the moment ends. Witold’s gaze returns to the present. He shakes himself, embarrassed. “Anyway, people would cut off their ears for these Ladies and leave them in the orphanage – that’s where the Ladies lived, you see.”

“Why do these people not want to talk about it?” Ameer asks. “Is it because I am an outsider?”

“No…It’s hard to tell with the folk in Greyrocks and Crowsperch, since they speak so seldom about it. I guess they just…stopped believing in the Ladies. They worship Melitele now.”

That explains the neglected statue they found earlier. “What about Crookback Bog?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re still obsessed with the Ladies and that other bloke.”

“The other bloke?”

Witold scratches his head. “He-Who-Listened, or Heard or something. Can’t quite remember.”

Yennefer never mentioned someone by that name when they spoke about the Crones. “Who is that, then?”

“Don’t know if I’m honest, but he must be important. They’ve mentioned him a lot when I’m down there, doing jobs for them. And I’ve heard them say his name at the orphanage – see, I’m always getting contracts down there to escort people to the orphanage. There are loads of monsters in Crookback Bog, ‘specially in the swamps, so people hire me to protect them on the way.”

“They want to see the orphanage?”

“Yeah. They bring offerings. Clothes, ears, food.” He frowns, troubled. “That’s what I find weird, to be honest. They can’t afford to feed themselves down there, you know. There’s a very good chance that whole villages will starve to death this winter. But they still leave the best of their food at the orphanage, to rot away in a swamp.” He sighs. “I’m not a religious type, so maybe I don’t understand, but…seems misguided to me.”

Ameer tilts his head. “They might starve? Was the harvest that poor?” Everything seemed fine up here.

Witold sighs. “Things are bad in Crookback Bog. A blight. It’s huge, like nothing I’ve ever seen. Stretching across the whole landmass. All the crops are rotting more and more every day. Doesn’t matter what type – wheat, barley, onion, all turning shrivelled and black. Whole fields wasted, without harvesting a single crop.”

“That is terrible.” Ameer says this genuinely. In Ofier, where the environments are so harsh and difficult to grow in, food insecurity was always at the front of everyone’s mind. Such a blight would cause masses of panic. “And _all_ the crops are affected?”

“Yeah.” Again, he gains that distant look. His blue eyes pierce some unseen memory. “I remember, when I was…younger, there was a blight. A fungus. Caused all the wheat to die. Nothing could be saved…Lots of money was lost, and lots of people starved. But that was different – it was just wheat. This is _everything_.”

“That does not sound like a fungus.” Ameer voices what Witold must be thinking.

“Not even flies will touch it.” Witold frowns. “No flies, no bugs, nothing.”

The answer is clear to Ameer. The Crone is behind this strange blight. She must be.

Why, he doesn’t know. He’ll ask Yennefer later; she knows more about the Crone than he does, so perhaps she’ll have some idea.

For now, he decides to keep it to himself. These people react oddly when it comes to the Crones – who knows how they’ll react if he starts making accusations.

Instead, he takes out the portrait of Tye. Unrolling it, he pushes it across the table. “This was the man I was looking for. He calls himself Tye. He has a scar on his forehead, which he covers with red cloth. Has he ever accompanied you on these trips to the orphanage?”

Witold studies the drawing carefully. “…No, I’ve never seen this man before. Why?”

Damn it. “Well, if he approaches you and asks for passage to the orphanage, do not take him. Tell me instead.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“He…Caused some trouble in Novigrad. Some trouble involving a crystal golem.” It’s not entirely a lie – Tye supplied Filip with the crystal golem, after all. “We heard he was interested in the Crones, so I was wondering if he had gone to the orphanage. At this rate, we will have to search the whole of bloody Velen.”

Witold grins. “Unlucky. Of all the places your man could’ve run, he runs to a swampy, miserable hellhole.”

At this, Ameer laughs. “Where the people cut off their ears and all the crops are dying. Very unlucky, indeed. Though that makes me wonder – why are you here, in this miserable hellhole?”

“People need help. So I come through and help them.”

Ameer raises an eye brow. “Really?”

“Yeah. I can swing a sword and I’m good at fighting. Might as well put those skills to good use. No other fancy reason – nothing as exciting as yours, anyway.” He shrugs simply. “People need help, so I help them. The way I see it, that’s as good a reason as any.”

“Huh.” Ameer smiles. “As good a reason as any. I like that.” He promptly decides he likes Witold, too. Somewhat odd, a little awkward, but genuine. Earnest. Ameer likes that.

Over at the gwent table, Ameer hears a commotion – the match is finished. Some spectators cheer as a man stands up, holding out his hands to the applause. Some, though, only shake their head disappointedly. Zoltan is entirely silent, scowling in quiet rage as he collects up his deck and storms away, filling up his tankard at the bar. Ameer waves at him, catching his attention and gesturing him over.

“Bad match?” He asks as Zoltan slams down his tankard onto the table.

“He was cheating.” Zoltan immediately says. “I know it. I was countin’ his cards – he had more than 20 in that deck!”

“The barkeep said he was a cheater.” Ameer remembers. “What did you lose?”

“Some of my best bloody cards!”

“How about you try and win them back?”

“I can’t, I don’t have a full deck anymore now.” Zoltan laments.

“I’ve got a deck.” Witold reaches into his bag and brings out a stack of cards. The back is red, with three claw marks – a monster deck. The cards look worn and somewhat dirty. “You could try and win them back with mine.”

“No, no…No point losin’ your cards too. I don’t know how he’s cheatin’, so I’ll just fall prey to the same trick again.”

“I could play him.” Ameer suggests.

“Have you ever played with a monster deck before?” Zoltan asks.

“No.” Ameer admits. “Only Scoia’tael. But I _will_ be able to figure out how he is cheating.”

Zoltan’s eyes gleam with excitement as he sees Ameer’s conspiratorial expression. “Aye, I bet you will.”

Witold looks between them. “What? What’re you planning?”

“Hold out your hand.” Ameer instructs. Witold does so, though with bemusement. “Now, what is your favourite flower?”

“Iri –” He catches himself suddenly, looking strangely panicked. “Uh…Lilies. Like the ones that grow on ponds and stuff.”

A large, pink lily flower unfurls in Witold’s palm. Taken aback, Witold holds it closer to his face.

“How did you…” Witold smiles. “…I’m impressed.”

He nods, and the flower disappears. “Illusions. They are my speciality.”

“So, you’re cheating?” Witold sums up.

“He should not have cheated himself. Think of it as…retribution. And not only can I guarantee a win, but I will figure out how he is cheating without him ever realising.”

Witold thinks about this. Ameer prepares for some long speech about the follies of cheating.

“All right.” Witold says instead. “Let’s do this. But if you want to win, illusions won’t be enough. You’ve got to look like you know how to use the deck, or else they’ll guess you’re cheating.”

He moves around to Ameer’s side of the table, sitting on the bench next to him, and spreads out the deck.

“Now, this is how you play.” Leaning in, he points at the cards, whispering excitedly. “The leader card lets you draw out any weather card from your deck – this one only has one long-ranged card, so use fog weather cards as much as you can.”

“Right.” Ameer isn’t concentrating, though. He keeps on glancing at Witold’s face. He’s very close. From this distance, Ameer can see the details in the scars – each ancient tear of skin like a crack in the earth. He can see each russet hair on his beard and in his eyebrows. And he can see those eyes so clearly – shockingly blue like ice, yet not cold at all. Warm. Excited and sincere.

“Try and use your muster cards to make him give up the first go, then go all out on the second round. I have archespore and vampire muster cards, but the vampire ones are the best; they’ll protect you against scorch. Now, you need to watch out for Villime…the dragon one. The vampire muster cards can give you some protection against that. The man you’re playing against, Derek, he’s none too smart so you should bait him with the fiend card into playing the dragon scorch ability too early.” Witold leans back, patting Ameer on the shoulder. “That make sense?”

“I think so.” If worse comes to worst, he’ll have to fall back on his illusions.

Witold slaps him on the shoulder with a grin. “Well, let’s find out. Good luck!”

Taking one last swig from his tankard, Ameer approaches the gwent table. The man Zoltan fought against is smugly recounting his victory to his friends, who laugh along derisively.

“Excuse me.” Ameer catches his attention. “Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation. Are you Derek?”

The man looks Ameer up and down with a glint of contempt in his eyes. “Why d’you wanna know?”

Ameer holds up the monster deck. “I would like to play you.”

Derek smiles unpleasantly, sharing a look with his friends. “Sure. But I don’t just play for fun. What’re you willing to stake?”

Ameer holds out his hand, where an illusory necklace of gold and sapphire sits on his palm. No point risking something real.

Derek stares at the necklace with wide eyes. “I don’t have anything of equal value to this.”

“I want the cards you just won off of my friend.”

“Aw, he’s sent his friend to win back his cards?” Derek laughs mockingly.

“Do you want to play or not?”

Derek looks at the necklace again. In his mind, this must seem like a very foolish trade: an expensive necklace for a few cards is not a good deal. So in his mind, this opponent must be stupid and inexperienced. Good. Not only will he be more likely to play, but he’ll underestimate Ameer.

“I’ll play you.” He smiles cruelly. “Your necklace against my cards.”

“Excellent.” Ameer sits down opposite him. “May our match be fair.”

It doesn’t take long for another crowd to gather around them. Among them, Ameer can see two familiar faces. Zoltan watches, chewing on his thumb nail, looking anxiously between the two. Witold watches too, but with curious amusement. Surely he must be nervous about leaving his deck with a stranger, but it doesn’t show on his face.

Ameer faces his opponent with calm confidence. There’s no way he can lose. Should the match go badly, he can conjure more illusory cards into his hand. But he’s certain it won’t come to that anyway – as soon as he figures out how Derek is cheating, his strategy will be scuppered. Besides, Ameer isn’t bad at gwent. He’s played many times in Nilfgaard, and even partook in Ofieri competitions. Rohan never understood the appeal, though partly because he was terrible at the game. He always complained whenever Ameer took out his deck, got so frustrated when Ameer attempted – and failed – to teach him, but he’d cheer up when Ameer sang for him…

No. Don’t think about Rohan. Focus on the match. Focus on getting Zoltan’s cards back. Don’t think about Rohan, not even for a second.

Pushing down the wave of melancholy that rises up inside of him, Ameer readies his deck. Derek grabs the flipping token.

“What’ll it be?” Allowing Ameer to pick first – feigned trustworthiness.

“Heads.”

“Tails for me, then.” Derek tosses the token – in a careful, practiced way that ensures he’ll get tails, Ameer notes. Subtle enough for Zoltan not to notice, but Ameer’s seen cheaters before. He knows the tricks.

“Tails. Bad luck.” Derek places his first card. “Your move.”

The match starts smoothly. As per Witold’s advice, Ameer uses the archespore musters to build up a high score using minimal cards. Derek retaliates with a few of his own, but quickly passes the first round when Ameer’s score gets too high.

This means the second match will be vital for Derek to win – and this means he’ll probably start playing dirty.

This time, Ameer can go first. One of the archespore cards remains on the board, thanks to the monster deck special ability. He uses the fiend card, placing it tantalisingly as bait. Derek places a catapult. Ameer decides to begin his vampire muster, placing one down. Derek places another catapult. Ah, he’s trying a siege strategy…

Ameer looks at his deck, pausing. Derek laughs.

“What, you’re already getting stuck?”

But Ameer isn’t thinking or planning. He leaves an illusion of himself in the chair with a thoughtful expression, and gets up from the table. No one can see the real him.

Carefully, Ameer kneels down by Derek, who’s watching Ameer’s illusion with a smug expression. Where are the hidden cards? In his boots? No, Ameer can’t see anything, and that would be too obvious anyway. In his coat pockets? They’re empty.

Ameer frowns, thinking hard. The trick with the token earlier was good, subtle enough that Ameer would’ve missed it if he wasn’t paying attention. He’s got a good sleight of hand. Maybe…

While his illusion places another card down on the board, Ameer carefully rolls up the man’s sleeves. They’re baggy and loose, perfect for hiding things in.

Sure enough, two cards drop out of the left sleeve: John Natalis and Esterad Thyssen, both 10-point melee heroes.

Smiling, Ameer takes them carefully. These would’ve certainly left him at a disadvantage. He walks back to his chair, taking a seat. But before he drops the illusion, he turns to Zoltan and Witold. Allowing only them to see him, he waves the cards at them with a smile. Zoltan gives him a subtle thumbs up. Witold tries to bite back a laugh.

For a while, the match continues. Ameer uses his vampire muster to protect himself from the Villentretenmerth scorch ability. When Derek builds up his siege cards and uses Foltest’s siege ability to double their points, Ameer uses his leader ability to take out a weather card. And with his illusion, he changes his impenetrable fog to torrential rain, negating the siege cards.

Realising that he’s in danger of losing, Derek purses his lips. When Ameer looks into his own deck to draw out a card, he notices a subtle movement in Derek’s wrist. He’s trying to slide out the hidden cards to boost his hand.

Of course, nothing happens. Frowning, Derek feels his wrists. His face goes white when he realises his sleeve is empty.

After that, the match ends quickly. Without the extra cards to boost him and pull out ahead of Ameer, Derek loses the round – and with that, the entire match. The spectating crowd chatters excitedly, obviously not expecting this outcome. His friends look shocked. One, a scrawny man, thumps him on the shoulder.

“How the hell’d you lose against a foreigner?! Think of the money we could’ve got from that necklace!” He hisses.

Derek thumps him much harder in the arm. “Shut up!”

Ameer holds out his hand. “The cards, please?”

Face flushed with irritation and embarrassment, Derek roughly hands them over. With that, he and his friends moodily head over to the bar.

Triumphantly, Ameer strolls back to their table by the fireplace, Zoltan and Witold following behind him. Once they’re well out of earshot from the losing team, Zoltan laughs and slaps Ameer on the shoulder heartily. “What a match!” He beams. “That’ll teach the whorseson to mess with us!”

Ameer passes him the three lost cards, feeling a warm buzz from the high of victory. “That was fun. You should lose your cards more often.”

“I’ll buy us all a drink.” Zoltan hurries to the bar, ordering three tankards of ale. Ameer doesn’t protest. He’d rather stay here than go back upstairs to the strange room and thoughts of Tye and Rohan.

“Here.” He passes Witold the monster deck. “Thank you for letting me use your cards.”

Witold takes them back. “No problem – it was a very entertaining match. And you’re pretty good at gwent. For someone who’s never used a monster deck, you handled it like a pro.”

Ameer smiles. “Thank you.” He shouldn’t care what some stranger thinks, but a part of him is glad to hear these words.

When Zoltan returns with the tankards, and they drink and talk about trivial matters, Ameer realises he’s having fun. No looming, distressing thoughts nag at his mind. The feelings of anger, and fear, and heartache no longer grip at his chest. The pleasant buzz of alcohol and company banishes them. He’s…having fun.

This isn’t what he was supposed to do. He should be trying to find out more about the Crone, or just retire to bed. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels guilty. This isn’t what he should be doing.

But it feels nice. To shed those terrible thoughts. To pretend that they don’t exist. Right now, he feels happy. And he doesn’t want to change that.

So he stays. Laughs and talks with the two of them. Indulges in that feeling of happiness. For when this night comes to an end – when those thoughts and memories come racing back – he doesn’t know when he’ll feel like this again.

Eventually, Zoltan – having drained the last of his tankard – stretches. “Gods, it must be getting late…Think I’ll head up before I get too drunk. You comin’, Ameer?”

He should. He really should. That’s what he told himself: that he’d go up to bed when Zoltan had finished his match.

But…

“I think I will stay down here a little longer.” Ameer smiles. “I will go to bed soon, though.”

“Fair enough. Just don’t get too pissed.”

“Too pissed?” Ameer tries to remember the lessons in slang. “Why would I be angry?”

“Ah, shit, I forgot to say – to get pissed can also mean getting really drunk. Or else Yen –” He leans in and whispers in Ameer’s ear, as if she might be listening. “Or else Yennefer might get pissed – but in the angry way this time. And you don’t want to be on the receiving end of that wrath, trust me.”

“Her wrath is frightening, yes.” Ameer muses. He’s seen it directed towards various foes in Nilfgaard before.

“Even worse, though, is if Regis looks at you all disappointed and gives you a lecture. You _definitely_ don’t want to be on the receiving end of that, either!”

“Definitely not. Do not worry, I will be sensible. Sleep well, Zoltan.”

Once Zoltan leaves, Witold gestures to the empty tankards. “Wanna have one more drink?”

“One more.” Then he really will retire for the night. He’s tipsy enough to feel elated and happy, but not so drunk that he’s losing control. He doesn’t want to tip that delicate balance.

“I’ll pay this time.” Witold stands up and begins walking over to the bar before Ameer can insist on paying himself. This time, Ameer sees that he pays for the drinks rather than the barkeep giving them for free – probably because he’s buying more than one. He clearly doesn’t have much money, yet is still taking his turns with the tab. That’s sweet – if a little foolish, Ameer thinks fondly. He likes that.

He quickly banishes those thoughts as Witold walks back over, carrying two tankards on a tray. But as he walks, he trips on the edge of a chair. In an effort to right himself, the tankards knock over and roll off the tray, spilling their ale with them.

Instantly, Ameer reaches out his hands, chanting a quick spell. He manages to catch them just in time, despite his slightly clumsy casting. The tankards and their contents glow green, and begin to hover in the air. Moving his hands in circular motions, he levitates the tankards back onto the tray, and funnels the alcohol back into them.

“There. Good as new.” He smiles, sneaking a glance at Witold. Upon seeing his impressed expression, he feels a wave of satisfaction.

“Nice catch.” Witold carefully places down the tray and wipes his brow. “That would’ve been a waste –”

“Hey!”

The shout comes from across the room. Amer turns to see Derek staring at him. His face is flushed with alcohol and anger. He points at Ameer accusingly.

“You’re a mage!”

Ameer frowns. “…And?”

“You’re magic! You cheated, I know it! I bet you used magic! That’s how you won, ain’t it?!”

The bar is going quiet. His friends are looking over angrily and accusingly. The rest of the spectators watch interestedly. The barkeep sighs, and calls over.

“Derek, shut up. You lost. Stop being a sore loser.”

He ignores her, storming over towards them. “You cheated, didn’t you? Just admit it!”

Ameer raises an eyebrow. “Those are bold words coming from you.”

He bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He demands hotly, getting uncomfortably close to Ameer. Four of his friends are standing behind him, looking eager for a fight.

“You know what it means.” Ameer replies evenly. “Natalis and Thyssen would agree with me.”

The man’s eye twitches. “He-He’s a liar! And a cheater!” He shouts to the crowd. Ameer can see that although some of them roll their eyes at his proclamation, some look invested in his words.

“Look at him, he’s another foreigner trying to take advantage of us!” He continues shouting. “First Temeria abandons us, then Nilfgaard slaughters us, and now foreigners coming here and cheating us out of our money!”

He’s spouting nonsense. The other villagers must know he’s a cheater, but now that he’s suddenly painting a ‘foreigner’ as a villain, that seems to be forgotten. Ameer spots several people nodding in agreement.

“It’s all thanks to that fuckin road! The Black Ones said that we’d get money from it, but where is it? In their fat pockets! They said they wanted to ‘tame’ our land with their ‘civility’, but all they did was destroy our shrines and statues, and wear down our pride! And all these foreigners are just making things worse – trampling our land and values while they look down on us! What’s next? We gonna have people like him telling us what to wear or who to worship again? Just like what the Black Ones tried?”

More murmurs of agreement. The crowd’s opinion is changing. What started as irritation is quickly morphing into panic inside of Ameer’s chest.

He’s not the only one – someone grabs his arm gently, and Ameer sees that Witold’s expression is troubled. 

“We should leave. Move somewhere quieter.” He whispers. “They’re spoiling for a fight.”

“You know what?” Derek continues his tirade, oblivious to Ameer and Witold’s plan to leave. “We should take a lesson from the folk down south! They’ve got the right idea in Crookback Bog! We should be doing what He-Who-Listened said, not abandoning the way of the Ladies and bending over backwards for these foreigners!”

Instantly, all support for Derek in the crowd vanishes.

Like a puddle evaporating in the desert. The nods of agreements stop. No more shouts or murmurs in support of his rant. A heavy, icy silence falls over the tavern. Ameer sees haunted, hollow faces. Ashen and shadowed. He sees eyes glancing to the ground, to the walls, to anywhere but Derek in a fit of panic.

With the single mention of the Crones, Derek has suddenly lost all support from his fellow villagers. Despite being told already this evening that the people here dislike talking about the Crones, Ameer is still taken aback by how vehemently they despise this topic of conversation. Interesting – in a vaguely ominous way.

Even without the crowd riling themselves up for a fight, though, Ameer still doesn’t particularly want to stay here. This is enough excitement for one night. He turns to Witold. “Come on. Let us leave.”

Derek quickly realises his mistake. He backtracks hastily. “Wait! Wait, don’t you walk away!”

“Give it a rest, Derek…” Someone shouts from the crowd. Where once they listened to Derek’s arguments sympathetically, now there is only irritation thanks to the mention of the Crones.

Still, he won’t be deterred. “I-I bet he’s working with the Scoia’tael!” He shouts, somewhat desperately.

Frowning, Ameer turns back. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about! You and that dwarf – you worked together to trick me!” His rant becomes more confident. “That’s what your type do! Trick people and cheat!”

One of his friends spits. “Filthy nonhumans.”

“You’re working with the Scoia’tael, I bet!” He insists again. “You’ve come here to steal our food, like you did in Crookback Bog!”

“You should check em for weapons!” Another of his friend calls, gleefully engaging in this fantasy.

“No one’s seen the Scoia’tael in years.” The barkeep shouts over. “Give it a rest, Derek. You lost. I’m not having any more of this nonsense in my inn.”

“But that’s what they do! They trick and cheat people! And if we’re not careful, they’ll slit our throats in the night!”

“Oh, shut up.” Witold says tiredly. “Stop trying to pick fights just because you lost.”

“You’re all the same!” Derek continues. “Liars and murderers! I bet you brown elves are just as bad!”

One of his friends leans forwards, but speaking loudly enough to hear. “Remember that elf we beat up for being late on his loan? I wonder if those brown elves bleed the same as normal elves.”

Ameer flinches. Those words are so familiar.

In his mind, he sees the cruel faces of Skellige.

“ _Put his hand into the fire. See if these fox elves burn like normal elves.”_

Instantly, he feels sick. His hand begins to hurt from a wound that no longer exists. Just one example of many, but they’re all equally painful.

The distress must show on his face, for Derek laughs. “Look! He’s scared! Told you they’re cowards!”

A spark of anger burns inside Ameer and quickly spreads like wildfire. He storms over, fist clenched – and is blocked by Witold.

“He’s not worth it.” He pushes Ameer back gently, hands on his shoulder. “Ignore him.”

“Aw, are you hiding? You afraid?” Derek sneers. He’s enjoying this, and it enrages Ameer. He tries to storm forwards again, and again Witold pushes him back.

“You, shut up.” He turns to Derek scornfully. “No one here wants a fight – stop looking for one.”

“Who do you think you are, Redanian?” Derek shoots back. “Comin’ round here like you’re one of us? Like you’re not a stranger? You’re foolin’ no one! We don’t need help from you, so fuck off!”

Witold doesn’t flinch from the verbal assault. He lets the insults roll off him. “You’re drunk and causing a scene. You’re embarrassing yourself. Go home.” Then he turns back to Ameer. “Come on, let’s leave. We had our fun – no point ruining that over one arsehole.”

But it’s not just one arsehole, Ameer thinks. Only moments ago, most of the villagers were agreeing with Derek. How quickly they fell into the delightful practice of wanting someone to scapegoat, to project their grievances and anger onto. And if not for the lack of disaster, Ameer is certain that even more of them would have reacted the same as this stupid, drunken man. Accused him of being a Scoia’tael spy. With enough anger and bloodlust among them, they might’ve killed him. This man is just one among many. In the past, in the future, seeds of hatred waiting to burst into life at the slightest inconvenience.

It frightens him. It fills him with anger. He wants to wipe the smile off that stupid’s man face for making him feel this way.

But Ameer is strong. Both physically, and in magical skill. Sometimes, he forgets his strength and the fragility of humans. If he accidentally causes excessive harm, he could get himself – and Yennefer – into trouble.

So he steps back. Takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Calm down. Witold is right; he’s not worth it.

“Fine.” He holds up his hands. “Fine.”

“Ok. Good.” Witold turns to Derek and his friends, who look disappointed that this argument bore no violence. “Now, if you know what’s good for you, I’d suggest you go home. You’ve interrupted everyone’s evening enough as it is.”

But Derek isn’t deterred. As Ameer turns to leave, he jumps forwards and grabs Ameer’s arm, yanking him back forcefully.

“I’m not done! Don’t you walk away!”

The adrenaline that never left his body from being in that strange room surges back to full force. The pain in his shoulder from the man yanking him is familiar. A memory flashes through his mind.

It’s cold in the smoking room. The fire has been doused. His hand burns in pain. His body aches. He can taste blood in his mouth.

And his shoulders throb agonisingly. The cords are tight around his wrists. His arms are twisted above him, tied to one of the empty rails meant for smoking fish.

The rope becomes tighter, and his arms are hoisted up even further, dragging his body up with it. He cries out as pain shoots down his arms and shoulders like lightning.

His feet aren’t on the floor anymore. He tries to call out to the men, beg them to release him and let him down. He can’t – his throat is too sore, his voice too hoarse.

One of them secures the rope. He looks over with a scornful, malicious smile. And he leaves. They all leave. Leave Ameer hanging by his wrists in that cold, cold room.

“Ameer!”

He’s back in Velen. Back in the tavern. And he’s aware that his knuckles ache dully.

That’s because he’s punched Derek in the face. The man is staggering backwards, blood pouring from his nose. His friends catch him before he falls, supporting him.

A moment of silence takes over the inn. The very air tenses; the stillness before lightning strikes in a storm. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion.

Witold grabs Ameer’s wrist and hastily pulls him backwards. “We need to leave, now. I don’t wanna fight, but he does.”

He’s right. Derek is quickly recovering from the shock of the blow. He wipes his nose, smearing blood on the back of his hand, and looks over at Ameer with seething rage. His friends are rolling up their sleeves, beginning to encircle them.

“You broke my fucking nose!”

Shit. Ameer didn’t mean to do that. He lashed out automatically, a defence mechanism instilled in him from Skellige. He should leave, now.

But he sees those faces. Hateful, mocking faces. Baying for blood over petty inconveniences. Faces just like those men from Skellige. They were looking for any excuse to fight, and they decided to take all their anger out on Ameer.

Ameer looks down at his hands. His wrists are unbound by dimeritium shackles. 

He steps forwards, shaking out his sore fist, rage bubbling through him. They don’t know who they’re up against, but they’re going to know in a minute. “All right. You want a fight? Come on, then!”

Witold sighs, defeatedly. Ameer assumes he’ll give up, back away and watch as blows are exchanged.

Instead, he stands next to Ameer and readies his fists, taking up a boxer’s stance. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“Oh, for goodness sake – out!” The barkeep shouts. “Take it outside!”

Derek ignores her, wiping his bloody nose again. His friends spread out, eyeing Ameer and Witold like prey. Including Derek, there’s five of them in total. The rest of the inn watch, amused and interested. They begin to gather round. Ameer can hear whispers.

“Five crowns on our lads.”

“Are you joking? Did you see how the elf sent him flying? I’m bettin’ on the foreigners.”

Ameer looks between the men, quickly making judgements as his blood pumps with rage and adrenaline and the wild confidence of alcohol. Derek is injured, so he’ll go down the fastest. The scrawniest is the swiftest – his punches won’t hurt, but he looks quick. Ameer will have to be careful not to lose sight of him. The strongest, a man taller than Ameer, moves with a slight limp – the slowest. Two brawny men who look very similar, probably brothers, look dim but strong. Ameer doesn’t care. He’s too angry to be cautious or afraid. And with all his powers back, he feels invincible.

Derek moves first, swinging back his fist for a punch. Ameer waits till the last second to dodge, sidestepping nimbly out of the way. Derek’s momentum carries him forwards, unable to change direction, and Ameer kicks him viciously in the back. He flies forwards onto a table, flipping it onto the side and spilling the food of some unfortunate customers onto the floor. 

One of the brothers swings another punch at him. Ameer catches his fist, then hits him savagely in the face. The man staggers but stays standing, teeth gritted. When Ameer knees him in the crotch though, he falls to the ground with a face red from pain.

To his side, the other brother is coming after Witold in a flurry of punches. With calm ease, Witold dodges each blow. Not a hint of concern or panic crosses his face. Just methodical coldness in his eyes as he evades another hit – then punches the man under the chin, sending him staggering backwards, stunned.

Ameer senses someone behind him. Not a moment too soon, he dodges the scrawny man’s punch. But he trips backwards into the arms of the tall man, who grabs him by the arms, holding him in place. Ameer tries to squirm out of his grip –

And he’s in Skellige. He’s being dragged over towards the fire. Panic flares throughout him. He struggles and writhes, trying to snatch his bare hand away from the flames.

“Let’s see if these Fox elves burn the same as normal ones.”

A blow to the face snatches him back to reality. His cheek stings, though the damage is minimal. The scrawny man reaches back his arm, aiming at Ameer’s face. The man doesn’t see Witold coming behind him, and striking him down with another precise blow.

Gritting his teeth, Ameer twists his body sharply and kicks out at the tall man, fuelled by pure fury. His attacker still holds on tightly. Again, Ameer kicks at his knees, and knocks back his head sharply. It hurts, but it hurts the tall man more as the blow connects with his nose. The grip loosens, and Ameer scrambles away.

Over by the table, Derek is slowly getting to his feet. He looks embarrassed and furious.

“I’ll kill you!” He shouts, unsheathing a knife.

A fight to the death after all? So be it! Driven by rage, Ameer makes to unsheathe his own when Witold grabs him by the wrist. “No, not worth it! Come on, let’s go!”

This time, Ameer doesn’t protest. Witold pulls him along as he pushes through the spectating crowd and out of the door.

Outside, the air is cold and damp, shockingly different to the warmth inside the inn. Not far behind them, Ameer can hear shouts.

“There they are! Get them!”

Witold leads him through the village, taking sharp turns around various houses to try and throw their pursuers. Ameer is far faster than Witold, but he lets Witold lead him – he knows the area better than Ameer. Besides, it’s Ameer’s fault that they’re being chased. He won’t abandon Witold now.

Abruptly, Witold pulls him round a corner, but their movement startles some dogs. No time for bewitchment; they start barking madly, and Witold drags them on.

“Wait –” Ameer whispers. “I can –”

Witold rounds a corner and then doubles back at the sight of the tall man, pulling Ameer sharply with him and turning a different direction. Another shout behind them. They’ve been spotted.

Witold quickens his pace, though Ameer still has to slow his own so as not to outrun him. They run out of the village, past empty fields that spread out towards forests and into darkness. “This way! We’ll hide till they pass!”

He stops by a ditch on the edge of a field filled with brambles and ground elder, gently pushing Ameer towards it. “Stay low and close to the bank!”

Nimbly, Ameer climbs down the slope, breath coming out in condensation at the sharp decrease in temperature. The frost-covered plants crack beneath him, and grass tickles his palms as he presses against the bank. Soon after, and a little ungracefully, Witold clambers down beside him. He holds his arm out across Ameer’s body, looking up intently at the embankment. He feels warm. Ameer inches closer, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring his own cloak. He can feel Witold’s warm breath on his cheek, and the smell on his clothes of rain and earth.

“It’s dark out here.” Witold whispers. “With any luck, they won’t have seen us.”

Only a second later, he’s proven wrong. “I think I saw them running towards the fields!” Someone shouts.

“Shit.” Witold begins to move. “We need to –”

Ameer puts his hand over Witold’s mouth, and a finger over his own. He’s sick of running from these stupid men. Besides, it’s dark out here – Ameer himself can see fine, but Witold will struggle to run in this darkness. Time to hide instead.

Above them, Ameer hears the crunch of boots against frost. He looks up. A face appears by the embankment. Enraged, panting and bloodied, Derek peers into the ditch. Beside him, Witold tenses. But Derek doesn’t see them. His gaze passes over them unknowingly, and his face fills with frustration. He walks up and down the ditch, but fails to see them.

“They’re gone!” He shouts.

“Ugh, let’s go.” One of his friends complains. “Let them freeze out there.”

“No way we’ll be allowed back at the inn after this.” Another one complains. “Let’s go back to mine. We can carry on drinking there.” The bloodlust is over, it seems. Now they’ve returned to being ‘ordinary’, tired labourers. The sudden shift in disposition unnerves Ameer.

Derek remains staring at the ditch for a moment while longer, but eventually moves on. Even his bloodlust is beaten by the miserable cold.

Ameer listens as the crunching footsteps get quieter and quieter as the men retreat back to the village. Even as they fade to silence, he remains sitting in the ditch with Witold, breathing hard.

“Are they gone?” Witold whispers, his voice muffled under Ameer’s hand.

“They are gone.” Ameer whispers back.

For a moment, they’re both silent. Then Witold begins to laugh. And Ameer finds himself laughing, too. A combination of triumph, relief and disbelief at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, fuelled by the touch of alcohol that makes the ditch seem as if it’s spinning slightly

“I can’t believe we did that.” Witold runs his hand through his hair as he laughs. A deep and charming laugh. It suits him.

Ameer leans back against the bank, hand on his forehead. “I just brawled like a drunkard! What is wrong with me?”

“They deserved it. They needed to be taken down a peg or two.” Witold grins.

“Oh, absolutely – I would do it all again.” Ameer says without hesitation. “If only for the look on his face when I threw him against that table.”

“And that trick you pulled back there – he saw right through us!”

Ameer shrugs humbly. “A simple trick.” And to think, he had so much trouble with it only a few days ago. The relief at his powers having returned to full strength is constant. “You had some good tricks up your sleeve too. Those were some heavy punches.”

“Anyone can swing a fist.” Witold says dismissively. “But hiding us in plain sight like that – not everyone can do that kind of magic.”

Ameer smiles. He doesn’t feel cold anymore. “…Thank you.”

Witold leans his head back against the slope, resting it on top of his hands. “I better steer clear of this village for a while. Have a feeling they won’t appreciate me hanging around. I normally try to avoid fighting like that, when I can.”

“You certainly seem to be a skilled fighter, though.”

“That’s the reason I try to avoid fights – I’ve been in too many.”

Ameer glances at him. “Why did you, then? Fight with me, I mean.”

For a second, Witold looks surprised, as if he isn’t sure himself. “…Well…I was havin’ a fun evening with you. Been a while since I’ve had a good time like that with someone. Normally, I’m alone.”

“Really?” Ameer frowns. “The people here seem to like you a lot. Why are you always alone?”

Again, a twinge of guilt washes across Witold’s face. He turns his head, as if hiding it. “Well…I’m not doing this for praise or money. So it makes me uncomfortable, when the people here treat me like some folk hero or something.”

Ameer tilts his head. Hm. Humble as well as kind. He likes that. Though, loneliness is a rotten feeling. Ameer knows that painfully well. Why subject himself to it? “Why? Most people would like being treated in that way.”

“I don’t deserve – I… I don’t know, it just makes me uncomfortable…” He trails off into silence for a while. “So it was nice spending my evening with someone who treated me normally. Been a long time since I had such a fun evening like that, and could just…forget about other matters. Feel less lonely. So, I thought it was worth it to stay and fight with you. If only to teach those fuckers a lesson.”

Ameer is silent for a few moments. “I feel the same.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t explain. For one night, Ameer could forget everything. Tye, Rohan, everything. And that felt good. Witold knows nothing about it, and treated him like any normal stranger would. That felt good. A temporary reprieve, but a good one. He doesn’t say that to Witold, though. “It is nice to have fun with strangers and…forget. As you said.”

Witold smiles. “You get it. You know, I’ve never told anyone that before. I’m glad I stuck with you.”

Ameer finds himself smiling, too. There’s a warmth inside of him he hasn’t felt in such a long time. “I was not expecting to find a…kindred spirit, of sorts, in this dismal land.”

Witold laughs at this. “Me neither. Silver linings and all that, huh?”

“Yes.” The warmth is spreading throughout his chest, across his body. “Silver linings.”

“Well, don’t know what you kindred spirit thinks, but I don’t particularly want to spend all evening lying in a ditch. We should get out of here.” Witold stands up. “But we should take a different path, lest we bump into them again.” He holds out his hand, and pulls Ameer to his feet. Warm, Ameer thinks. His hand feels warm. A nice contrast against this freezing air.

“You’re shivering.” Witold remarks. “You all right?”

“Grabbing my cloak was not in my top priorities when that man drew a knife on me.” Ameer says with a dry smile.

“Here.” Witold shrugs off his fur cloak and passes it to Ameer. “Have mine.”

“No, I could not –”

“You bought me hot food. Least I can do is let you wear my cloak.”

Ameer relents, and pulls the cloak around himself. The inside feels warm from Witold’s own body heat. Instantly, any cold Ameer felt vanishes.

“Better?” Witold asks.

“Yes.” Ameer smiles. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me.” Witold says, his tone sounding more serious than polite. “Anyway, I’ll lead the way. If we run into those men again, will you hide us?”

Ameer grins, and bows theatrically. “Of course.”

The route that Witold leads him on is a remote one, through backroads and fields. Apart from a smattering of lone farmhouses on the horizon, there are few indications of human occupation. Save for the occasional rabbit, they are alone as they walk together.

Though not completely full, the moon hangs prominently against the muggy grey backdrop of the dark sky; its glow breaking through the low hanging clouds to bathe the fields below in columns of pale light. Ameer stops at the sight of it, enraptured by its glow, and watches Witold wade through the silver dappled wheatgrass, moonlight caught against its frost-lined tips. It brushes against his sides in a ripple of waves buoyed by the wind. Like some gentle ocean. When he looks back at Ameer, his silhouette is cast in shadow as the moonlight washes over his back. From this distance, Ameer cannot discern his features. Something about the sight seems so lonely. A single figure lost amidst a sea of grass while the moon shines sadly from above.

“What’re you doing?” Witold’s quiet question breaks him out of his introspection. Though Ameer cannot see his face, the amused smile in his tone carries clearly across the wind. He smiles back instinctively, feeling light and happy, and drunk on moonlight.

“This place, it is…” Ameer struggles to translate the idiom he wishes to use. A frequent frustration when speaking Common. “It is very beautiful.”

Witold laughs in surprise and walks back towards him. “Velen? Beautiful? Think you definitely had a bit too much to drink mate.”

Despite himself, Ameer laughs too. “No, you misunderstand me.” He gestures to the surrounding field with his arms out wide. “This place. This moment. It is…It has enchanted the moon.” 

He looks expectantly at Witold, who just looks at him with a politely confused smile.

Ameer sighs. If he was speaking to Dulla in Ofieri, there’d be no confusion. He tries again. “I am trying to say that this place has won favour with the moon.”

“Okay, you’ve thoroughly lost me now.”

Ameer shakes his head in mock exasperation. “Your language is too simple. It is a phrase we say in Ofier. There is no direct translation in Common.” He thinks for a moment. “Ofier is not one religion. There are many different gods and worships.”

“God and the Universe, the sky and the steppe who birthed the first mare, the Crying Mother who gives birth to oases. I’ve heard of those ones. Is that right?” Witold asks.

Ameer is taken aback at his knowledge. “Yes, it is. Out in the steppes, there are some who worship the goddess of the moon. And when the moon is particularly bright, they say that the land has enchanted her – won her favour. Having earned her love, she blesses them with her light. But the goddess is not supercilious. She finds love anywhere. In this way, anything can receive her love, and anything can be made beautiful under the moon. Plants, trees, buildings…”

Witold nods slowly. “Velen. Even Velen can enchant the moon.”

“Now you understand.”

He looks up at the moon, and Ameer watches its reflection in his eyes. Something about his face looks oddly haunted. “Don’t usually think of the moon that way…but it’s nice. Very poetic.” He clasps a hand on Ameer’s shoulder. “Even if it’s just the alcohol talking.”

Ameer laughs him off, not caring enough to rebuke him. He certainly has had a lot to drink, and he can still feel the familiar sensation of warm light bubbling through him as he continues his walk through the fields. But more overwhelmingly he feels free; he feels confident, and he does not care where that confidence is coming from.

They continue walking back through the fields, where Witold had been leading him. But this time, they walk side by side.

“I am simply able to appreciate beauty when I happen to come upon it.” He glances at Witold and a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps human eyes are too primitive to do the same.”

“Might be something in what you say. I’ve had the privilege of seeing lots of different places in my lifetime. Seen lots of beauty, too. But I never used to appreciate it. Couldn’t, really. Even now, I suppose I still don’t appreciate it _enough_. I should.”

Ameer is slightly taken aback by his candidness. It was a simple joke – he didn’t expect to get an answer so filled with regret.

“Forgive me.” Ameer backtracks, feeling somewhat guilty. “I was teasing.”

“No, no, don’t apologise. Didn’t mean to turn the conversation heavy. Bad habit of mine.”

Ameer gets the sense that he’s not the only one harbouring deep troubles and regrets. Strangely, it makes him feel better.

“Well, prove yourself wrong, then. Tell me something beautiful you have seen.”

Witold looks at him with a cheeky grin. “Oh, I could tell you many a tale of plenty beautiful things, but I don’t think they’re fit for pleasant conversation.”

Ameer places his hands on his hips in mock annoyance. “You are teasing me Witold.”

“Not at all. I said you were pleasant conversation, didn’t I?”

“Hm…”

“All right, all right. I’ll answer properly. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was a sunrise. Just over the mountains in Kaedwen. I had pitched a tent near a herbalist who lived on the very edge of it – she was having a spot of bother with some nekkers.” He recalls. “I destroyed the nest, but I was too tired to travel so I stayed an extra night. She woke me up stupidly early in the morning and asked if I wanted to join her for a cup of tea. I was in half a mind to say no, and if this had been a few years earlier, I probably would have –”

He trails off. Again, the strange haunted look washes briefly over his face. “…Anyway, I said yes, and we watched the sun come out from behind the peaks. Didn’t speak a single word to each other really, just sat and watched the mountains and the sky and the valley beneath us. Watched the world come alive. Don’t have any fancy phrases to describe it like you do, which is a shame. Feels reductive to just call it what it was. But…there was something freeing about it.”

For the second time in quick succession, Ameer is surprised by the honesty and emotional openness woven through Witold’s words. They make him think of the glorious views from his home back in the mountains, the countless days marked by the rising and the setting of the sun over the peaks that hid them from the rest of the world. He knows the feeling of relishing that view intimately well, so well that through Witold’s description he can see himself there, seeing the sun rise too with his family at his side.

What surprises him even more isn’t the painful intensity at which his heart aches in his chest at the thought of home and his family, but the familiar expression of quiet sadness on Witold’s face. At first glance, the anecdote seems simple enough. But clearly more emotional turmoil hides beneath the surface, in details and context Witold has failed to mention. Ameer should know – after all, how many simple memories of beds and wine and blue velvet scarves have now been forever ruined?

When Witold glances at Ameer, who has been watching him keenly, he promptly looks away under the weight of his stare. “But yeah, sunrises, moons. It’s all nice, I suppose.”

Just as Witold quickly glosses over whatever heartache eats away at him, Ameer pushes down the memories, the sunsets and sunrises, the pain of missing home, and looks ahead. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about Witold, intrigued by his strange looks of sadness and regret. But to interrogate him any further would only stale what has been an enjoyable evening so far. Besides, he is tired of trespassing into other people’s painful memories; he has enough of his own haunting him.

“It seems you are very well-travelled, Witold.”

Witold follows the change in topic with ease and smiles again, the silently heavy conversation seemingly forgotten. “I suppose I get around. Mostly just the North though – well, I suppose it’s technically all Nilfgaard now. I’m not as cultured as I seem, though – there are plenty of places I haven’t seen. Still loads of places I would love to see. But what about you? You must have seen an awful lot of the world, considering you’re so far from home.”

“I suppose I have.” He forces the vision of snowy isles from his mind. “Enough so that I admit I am rather looking forward to going home someday.”

Ahead of them, Mulbrydale comes back into view, nestled beyond the field they walk through. Thankfully, there’s no sign of Derek or his friends.

“What’s it like? Ofier, I mean. What kind of place is it?” Witold asks. When Ameer regards him with surprise, he frowns. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…you seem more well-versed with our customs than most. Have you never visited our lands before?”

“I – uh… No.” Again, Witold looks oddly guilty. “No, I haven’t. Would like to one day though.”

Ameer playfully jostles Witold’s shoulder with his own, trying to wipe the look of regret off his face. “Well then, I will show you around. When you come one day.”

“Oh yeah?”

They reach the gate of the fence that surrounds the field. Despite his inebriation, Ameer nimbly vaults over it. Before climbing down, he turns with his feet on the bottom rung and rests his arms on the top rung.

“Of course. I will show you all the best places to visit, all the best food to eat.” His eyes take on a mischievous glint and he leans forward over the gate, “I will teach you what to say – and I definitely will _not_ make you speak nonsense to embarrass you in front of the locals.”

Witold laughs and also places his hands on the gate, on either side of Ameer.

“I think we both know I’m more than capable of embarrassing myself on my own.” He pushes open the gate with a playful smile. In his drunkenness, Ameer only just manages to keep his balance and stop himself from falling off. “But I certainly appreciate the offer.”

Laughing, Ameer hops down and continues following him, though he isn’t afraid of getting lost; their destination is clear ahead of them. 

“There, see that?” Witold points to the building in question, lit up more brightly than the rest. “That’s the White Heron. Won’t be too long till we’re back. Derek and his merry band of sods should be long gone by now.”

Witold continues to walk in the direction of the inn, but something makes Ameer pause. This feels too…final. He doesn’t feel ready for Witold and him to go their separate ways and never see each other again. Their parting makes him feel unexpectedly sad.

Without thinking, he calls out. “Wait.” Witold turns around and looks at him expectantly.

Shit. Ameer doesn’t know what to say.

Yet Witold stays quiet, content to wait for whatever Ameer is going to say. And what _is_ he going to say? How can he express what this evening has meant to him? How can he show Witold thanks, show him that he is grateful that he stood by Ameer – a complete stranger – when so many would have left? Witold has shown him kindness tonight. And in his kindness, Ameer has been able to distract himself from his worries.

But most of all, he treated Ameer based on nothing but himself.

He doesn’t know Ameer as the formerly powerful aguara, now a ruined shell of his past, proud self.

He doesn’t know Ameer as the poor, sea sick wretch who needs to be comforted like a child.

He knows Ameer only as the stranger he met at the bar. No history, no future, just him. So not only could Ameer distract himself from his worries, he was able to pretend they never even existed in the first place.

He stops and starts, feeling foolish and far too drunk to say anything coherent or meaningful, when an idea suddenly comes to him.

“You said there are lots of places you want to visit. If you could go anywhere, anywhere at all in the world, where would you go?”

Witold thinks about this for a while, clearly not expecting the question. “…Toussaint.” He says at last. “I hear it’s nice. A long time ago…I remember, I wanted to go there. To one of those wineries, you know? Apparently there’s a lot of them in Toussaint. You sit in a patio in a walled garden and drink all their fancy wine. Not really my kind of thing, personally, but…there was someone who wanted to go. I wish I could have gone.”

Ameer smiles. He’s never visited Toussaint, but he’s seen illustrations. He can do this for Witold; he can thank him this way.

He steps back, and changes the scenery.

The grass beneath them is gone. Instead neat cobbles take its place. Around them, he paints stone walls into existence, adorning them with climbing roses of brilliant red, white and yellow hues. Slated rooves of orange towers rise up past the walls around them, encircling a bright blue, cloudless sky above. He cloaks the air in a soft, embracing warmth envelops their bodies, stealing the harsh Velen air’s chill away. He is not well versed in the native wildlife of Toussaint, so he takes a few liberties when he paints into this vast portrait coloured birds flying overhead, or monarch butterflies fluttering past. In front of them he conjures up black iron tables with skilfully refined, swirling ornamentation and matching, cushioned chairs. Atop the table nearest to them sit two golden wine goblets, a small plate of olives and a thin glass vase holding a single lily of the valley, glistening with illusory morning dew. He fashions the gentle scent of roses to float upon the air around them, fresh and distinctively floral with delicate notes of berry, plum and wine. A final and soft touch to his creation.

It’s more complex than anything he could’ve made after being so weakened, and it is difficult keeping all the elements of the illusion up simultaneously – perhaps one of the most complicated illusions he’s cast in a long time. That last tankard of ale probably isn’t helping, either. Thankfully, the walls help keep the illusion contained to a manageable size of about 10 feet wide. Velen is no longer visible, not even the moon above them.

Witold looks around this new scenery. At first, he looks astonished, and a little confused. But his expression quickly changes to one of awe.

“Holy shit.” He looks at Ameer with a smile on his face. “Can I?…” He gestures hesitantly to the space around him, and Ameer merely nods, still concentrating hard.

Witold smiles again, and carefully walks around the illusion; this small part of Toussaint. He drinks it all in eagerly, marvelling at the detail of the walls, the tables, the flowers. He ghosts his fingers across the climbing roses and watches the butterflies, not wanting to touch them lest the illusion evaporate. Ameer does not know how long Witold plans to take enjoying his little Toussaint, but he does not mind, even as his head begins to ache from the intense concentration needed to keep up the scene. Because watching Witold enjoy his creation fills him with a contentment that warms him even more than conjured sun-soaked air around him. And when Witold turns back to him, eyes kind and smile sincere, he knows it is worth it.

“…Thank you, Ameer.”

Ameer is not sure when exactly he sees it; at what precise moment he feels the change in the air, but with those three words his breath stills in his chest. The warmth that has been steadily developing throughout his body all evening threatens to overflow.

Witold steps closer to him, and with every step the warmth builds and builds, until Ameer fears it will spill from his lips.

“Really.” He is so close now. Ameer can barely breathe. “Thank you. This is beautiful.”

Emboldened, enraptured and just a little unsure, Ameer answers him with a kiss. A quick, gentle press of lips against lips, of fingers tangled in hair, and Ameer wonders if Witold feels his warmth too.

Until Witold moves away. And just like that the moment is broken; just like that the warmth turns to ash in Ameer’s mouth.

“Oh.” Witold looks at him in surprise; in confusion.

Instantly, panic consumes Ameer.

Shit. Shit! He got it wrong. Witold wasn’t – he wasn’t actually – shit, shit, shit!

“I’m sorry Ameer.” He hears Witold as he takes a few hasty steps backwards, but his heart is beating so loud it feels like he is hearing it from underwater. The illusions around them has vanished; the air back to a chilling snare. “I’m not –”

But regret has trapped Ameer in its sharp, humiliating jaws, and in a surge of panic, he hides himself from view before Witold can finish.

Wildly, Witold looks around himself. “What the – where are you?”

Ameer doesn’t answer. This was a mistake. He begins running, desperate to get away, to get back to the inn – only to realise he still has Witold’s cloak.

Pursing his lips, he walks carefully back. Witold is still looking around himself, confused. Slipping off the cloak, still hidden from sight, Ameer places it around Witold’s shoulders.

With startlingly fast reflexes, Witold turns to face him. He still can’t see where Ameer is, but guesses his location with impressive instinct.

“Ameer, wait.” He reaches out blindly, still not certain where Ameer is. His hand almost brushes against Ameer’s, who barely manages to retract it in time. “Let’s talk.”

But he receives no answer in response. For Ameer runs away, back to the White Heron.

His embarrassment does not allow him to look back.

-

Somehow, the evening manages to become even worse.

Back at the White Heron, Ameer succeeds in sneaking back through the inn, hiding himself through illusion, and hurrying up the stairs…only to see the barkeep standing in the doorway of their room.

Shit.

“There you are.” The barkeep turns crossly. “See? His cheek is bruised. Isn’t that proof enough?”

There, standing with her arms folded, Yennefer regards him with an icy, frustrated stare. Next to her, Regis looks on with part exasperation, part sympathy, and part…disappointment.

 _Zoltan, I should have listened to you,_ Ameer thinks regretfully. _Now I am facing Yennefer’s wrath and Regis’s disappointed stare, just like you warned me about._

Ameer stands silently, looking down at the floor, while the barkeep lists his various offences.

“Now, I won’t say that he alone was responsible for the fight. Derek and his mates are stupid little shits.” As she complains, Ameer doesn’t try to speak up or defend himself. And he doesn’t dare look at Yennefer or Regis. “But he did throw the first punch. I won’t say that punch wasn’t well deserved, either, but he also threw Derek onto a table and broke it, which spilled and wasted food and drink, and got people’s clothes ruined. I’ll need extra money to cover the costs. I’ll be charging 100 crowns to your bill.”

“I understand.” He hears Yennefer say curtly. “We’ll pay for the charges. Ameer.” At the sharpness in her voice, he looks up. Her hands are sternly on her hips. “Do you have anything to say?”

He looks at the barkeep, abashed. “…I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you.”

The barkeep sighs. “What’s done is done. And I’m not unfair – I plan to punish Derek and his mates too. Buggers are more trouble than they’re worth.”

When she leaves, Ameer guiltily walks into the bedroom. Yennefer closes the door tightly behind him and once again, Ameer stares at the floor to avoid her gaze.

He feels so angry at himself. For causing trouble in this way. He feels ashamed at the iciness in Yennefer’s stare, the quiet exasperation on Regis’s face. He feels even more ashamed at the realisation that, could he go back in time, he’d still choose to stay and fight. He feels embarrassed, about kissing someone who wasn’t interested, at being so upset by those stupid men, at panicking about Skellige, at being reprimanded like a child…

But most of all, he feels _fear_.

The second he stepped into this room, he felt it. Some sort of…presence? A smell? A sound? He doesn’t know. Something faint tickling the memories at the back of his mind. Something so familiar, but weak enough that he cannot quite recognise it. Whatever it is, it sends a suffocating wave of fear through him.

Something about this room isn’t right. Something is pushing a surge of adrenaline into his blood. Sparks of Skelligan nightmares, of the sickening tilt of a ship, bubble at the forefront of his mind.

And he doesn’t know why.

“Well?” Yennefer’s impatient voice snaps him back to the present. “Is there anything you’d wish to explain?”

“I will pay.” Ameer says quietly. “It was my choice, so I will pay.”

“That’s not the problem. Why did you get into a bar fight? What the hell happened?”

“I…Ran into some men. They cheated Zoltan out of his cards. I won them back, they accused me of cheating, so I fought them with a stranger I had only just met, then we ran away, and then I kissed him, a man who was not even interested, and ran away and left him in a field. There. That is everything.” He rattles off, getting increasingly incensed as he speaks.

His statement throws Yennefer for a moment, but her anger isn’t undeterred. “But _why_ did you fight them? Why not run away? Why risk getting into a fight?”

Risk? “It was just a fist fight. Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious – Ameer! The medallion! What if they had pulled off the medallion?”

Instantly, Ameer feels sick. Panic surges through him. _The medallion. He forgot about the medallion._

Hastily, he fumbles and pulls the medallion out from underneath his clothes. Undamaged.

“I never thought…I never even thought…” He sits down on the bed and puts his head in his hands. “I am so, so sorry. I never even considered that.”

She’s right. What if Derek had grabbed the medallion and ripped if off? Then Geralt would’ve died. All of this would’ve been for nothing.

Ameer should have known better. Only earlier this evening, he had been fretting about Tye’s memory attacking Geralt – where was that caution when he started throwing punches?

He’s such an idiot. A stupid, careless, reckless fool. How would he even look them in the eye if something had happened?

He feels a hand against his shoulder and looks up. Regis kneels before him. “It was a mistake I’ve made before, forgetting about the medallion. But you’re normally more careful. We know you wouldn’t be reckless over nothing. So what happened?”

Ameer looks down at his hands. That feeling of shame won’t leave him. “…They accused me of being a Scoia’tael spy. And they said things that…reminded me of Skellige. _Really_ reminded me of Skellige. They just wanted to fight. The more upset I got, the more they provoked me. They enjoyed it – they _laughed._ And when they grabbed me, I…I did not even know what I was doing. When I realised what I had done, I should have left, but I did not. I let my anger get the better of me.”

When he looks up at Yennefer, he sees her anger fizzles out as she acquiesces. That relieves him.

“I understand – you wouldn’t fight so recklessly unless truly provoked. And I’m sorry those men distressed you so. But please, be more careful in the future.”

“I will. I promise. It will not happen again.” Ameer says seriously.

Yennefer sighs. “I just can’t believe you’d resort to a _fist fight_. You could’ve punished them with illusions in any way you like, you know, and they would’ve been none the wiser.”

True – that was very un-vulpess of him, a departure from his usual style. He can’t bring himself to tell her that his first initial swing was born from an automatic reaction, at a time where his powers were blocked by dimeritium. “What can I say?” He says instead. “Swinging a punch has its own satisfactions, too.”

“I’m sure it does, but how about you settle down for the rest of the evening?” Regis suggests gently. “You’ve had plenty of excitement tonight.”

Ameer wants to say yes. He really does.

“…There is something wrong with this room.” He insists, wringing his hands.

“You said that before. What do you mean?” Regis asks.

“I…I do not know for sure. Just…something is wrong. I cannot sleep here. Something has been bothering me all evening, putting memories into my mind, and I do not know what. I…” He trails off.

There’s something on the table.

“What are those?” He asks, standing up.

“Love letters.” Regis smiles. “Whoever stayed in the room before us left them here, under your bed. They’re from someone called Pivoine. It seems the two are deeply in love, whoever they are.”

Frowning, Ameer reaches out and picks up the stack. He holds them up to read.

And he realises.

The letters fall from his fingers as memories hit him savagely.

He realises now. What has been bothering him all evening. Why something about this room felt off.

These letters smell of flowers. And sweat. And something else he can’t quite identify. Three scents all linked together by the unmistakable stench of a human man. A human _mage_.

And for a moment, he’s not in Velen anymore. He’s back on the ship. Nauseous and dizzy from the sedatives. His arms ache. His body is exhausted from futile struggling.

Standing over him is his captor.

A face he cannot see. Disguised by a hood, a scarf, by the blur of being drugged. But emanating a scent that Ameer will never, ever forget.

Flowers. Sweat. Something strong and alien.

“Ameer?”

Velen. He’s back in Velen. He realises he’s cowering on the floor of the bedroom. Curled up defensively, arms shielding his head protectively. An automatic position.

He lowers his arms to see Regis kneeling down next to him, his face etched with surprise and concern. His hand hovers near Ameer’s shoulder, afraid to make contact in case Ameer lashes out accidentally. “Ameer, are you all right?”

He looks around himself. The letters are gone. When he looks up, he sees that Yennefer has gathered them up. Even looking at them makes him feel sick.

“Those letters…” He swallows. “Those letters belong to Tye.”

For one brief second, silence falls over the room.

Regis’s face has gone a horrible ashen colour. He grips Ameer’s shoulders tightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am.”

Her eyes wide, Yennefer looks down at the letters as if they’re on fire, as if they’re burning her hand. Now she drops the letters and takes a repulsed step backwards. The man who last held these letters was the same man who sent Ameer to Skellige as a slave. The man who last read these letters was the same man who arranged Geralt’s assassination.

Again, Regis grips Ameer’s shoulders. “Are-Are you truly certain?”

Ameer speaks with a voice that he tries to keep steady. “I told you that I would never, ever forget the scent of the man who did that to me.”

Now he understands. He’s been so jumpy all night, Skellige has been haunting him all night, because of these letters. The smell of Tye was in this room all along – he was _here_ – and they didn’t even realise.

Shakily, he gets to his feet. “…What were on those letters? Anything important?” He asks at last.

Both Yennefer and Regis hesitate for a long time. “…No.” Yennefer speaks eventually. “They were just love letters.”

Fury builds up inside of Ameer. “…He smelt of flowers. I could not tell which ones. But I still remember it clearly. It was an otherwise pleasant floral scent. When I was in that box…” He hesitates for a long time. “In the dark. Not able to move or speak. That smell was overwhelming. When I was on the ship, barely lucid from the sedatives he was giving me…I remember that smell. When he gave me over to those brutes in Skellige to be tormented and beaten for an entire year…And now this? Love letters _?_ The man who did that to me wrote _love letters_?”

Regis embraces him wordlessly, and Yennefer takes his hands gently. His anger is their anger. His distress is their distress. And he takes some comfort from that.

Eventually, Yennefer goes downstairs to ask around about Tye. When she returns in a thoroughly foul mood, he guesses before she has the chance to explain that, once again, no one recognised the sketch of Tye. His face was most likely obscured by his hood, and so many travellers pass through here, it would be easy for the innkeeper to forget him.

Fortunately, they don’t stay in their current bedroom. Yennefer has them moved, insisting they shouldn’t stay where Tye had been previously. Even so, none of them sleep particularly well that night.

The only other room available at such short notice only has one bed. They don’t care. It’s a tight fit, but they don’t care. Though they don’t admit it to each other, it feels safer this way. Safer from the Crone, from the one-eared worshippers, and from the painful presence of Tye lingering in the room.

They try very hard to ignore the smell of flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...that ginger man with the scars on his face...he kind of sounded a lot like that Redanian guy from Hearts of Stone...What was his name again? Bolgierd? Schmolgierd? Hmm...Wouldn't that be funny if they were actually the same person?!!  
> Anyway, on a completely unrelated note (!) Olgierd also does not have his own gwent card in my story haha


	5. The River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be in Yennefer's pov, then the next in Regis's, and so on and so forth. Ameer pov chapters will be very few in number.  
> I was very nervous about last chapter - I hope you enjoyed reading from his point of view, and I hope you enjoy this one!

_“-There was a fight here. Two dwarves and...something big._

_-Wounded dwarf tried to flee. Bleeding heavily._

_-Clawed the rock. Must've been angry...and strong._

_-Roots pinned this one to the ground...so hard he suffocated.” – Geralt’s observations at the site of a monster attack in the forest._

Ameer sleeps badly.

The smell of flowers haunts his dreams. He’s tormented by memories of his time on that infernal ship. Each time, the nightmares feel horribly vivid. The suffocating fear inside that box, hands shackled with dimeritium, a gag in his mouth, unable to move or call for help, the only company his pounding heart that felt it might fail. Or the nauseating rocking of the ship as Tye forces drugged water down his throat in that accursed room. All the while, the sickening smell of flowers lingers in the air. Flowers, the smell of a nervous human man, and something else he can’t identify. A face he cannot remember, one he never saw, but now knows to be the same as the sketch from Skellige.

He dreams of Rohan.

He does not want to dream of Rohan.

The nightmares leave him panicked, his body urging him to flee from a danger that isn’t there anymore. He only receives two respites from the terribly familiar nightmares.

One: Geralt wakes him from the memories. He really shouldn’t be there, not after how the memory of Tye attacked him last night. But he does so anyway. And when he opens the crate that Ameer is trapped in, and Ameer’s restraints dissolve into nothing, or when he gently shakes Ameer from his position chained up on the bed and wakes him from the nightmare…Ameer never stops being relieved. Two: When he wakes up – truly wakes up – Regis and Yennefer are there. He no longer feels ashamed as Regis soothes him gently, and Yennefer strokes his hair. Ameer knows he is powerful. They know he is powerful. Thus, he does not mind being comforted in this way. They will not judge him. This way, he feels safe.

Despite this, he still sleeps poorly. And it’s not just memories of Tye, or the smell of flowers from those damn letters.

It’s the presence of the Crone.

He feels it now as he lies awake in bed, nestled comfortably between Regis and Yennefer. He’s felt it ever since they stepped foot into Velen. A far away presence, strange and old and frightening. A feeling that he cannot explain in simple words, but understands innately within himself.

The dawn light is filtering in through the window, deceivingly gentle and warm. The last of the nightmare-fuelled adrenaline is fading, along with a vague headache from the ale last night. Fox Mothers heal faster than humans and elves, which also includes breaking down alcohol toxins.

Unfortunately, owing to the lack of hangover, it means that Ameer can remember everything. Just as he remembered being so upset at Dandelion’s song, he remembers his reckless behaviour last night too. Why the hell did he think getting into a bar fight was a good idea? And with that man Witold…

Ameer covers his eyes. “Allaena…” Why did he do that? Why did he kiss – gods, even _thinking_ about it makes Ameer burn with embarrassment. And he told Yennefer and Regis, didn’t he? Shit. He is not going to live this down.

Promptly, he decides to pretend he’s forgotten all about it. If Yennefer or Regis bring it up, he’ll feign ignorance, pretend he was blackout drunk. That’s the last thing he wants to think about right now.

Gradually, the headache vanishes. He feels more alert, more awake. Meanwhile, Regis and Yennefer sleep on. They must both be tired, worried about their journey to the swamps, fretting about Geralt. Yennefer’s eyes are shadowed by stress and fatigue. Even despite her creams and mandrake elixirs, she looks older and more tired than she ever has before. And Regis – he doesn’t actually need to sleep, but he’s slumbering deeply too. If an immortal vampire is exhausted from anxiety…It doesn’t bode well for the rest of the journey, and they’ve barely just begun. They haven’t even reached Crookback Bog yet.

And so, Ameer leaves them sleeping. He gets up quietly out of bed. Despite being in the middle, he has no fear of waking them up; even without his illusions, he’s able to move very quietly. Internally, he vows not to touch even a drop of alcohol in the future. They have enough to worry about without Ameer adding to their problems. He won’t act so foolishly again.

Downstairs, the split between the two sections of the inn is more obvious. The side of the inn where travellers seem to frequent is busy, with customers eating breakfast and preparing to set off on their journeys. The tavern side of the inn, though, is quiet. Most of the patrons from last night are probably working in the fields. Those who aren’t will still be asleep. Even the barkeep is gone. Mercifully, Ameer can see no sign of Witold, or the assholes he fought last night.

It’s not entirely empty, though. One figure is sleeping at the table, head nestled in his arms and snoring loudly.

Frowning, Ameer walks quietly over. “Zoltan?”

Zoltan doesn’t stir. Ameer sits down next to him and taps his shoulder. “Zoltan?”

“Ah, shit!” He bolts up right suddenly, knocking over the empty tankards in front of him. Immediately, he puts his head into his hands and groans.

“Oh…I should not have had that last beer…”

Ameer pats his shoulder. “I did not realise you came back downstairs.” He’d gone up before Ameer, after all. “Are you all right?”

Zoltan sighs. “No. Gods. I think I’m gonna throw up…”

“Let me go find you some medicine.” Ameer suggests. “To help with your nausea.”

Zoltan puts his head back in his hands “Thanks. I’m just gonna sit here and…try not to move.”

Slipping on his pine green cloak, Ameer steps outside. Immediately, the cold cuts him to the core. These bloody northern kingdoms are so cold. A different kind of cold to what he’s used to; in the mountain foothills, the air was always dry. When night fell, and the air became frigid, it was a _clean_ cold. A sharp, exhilarating cold, and a welcome relief from the heat of the day.

This cold is different. Heavy. Wet. With frost that bites him savagely. It drags him down with suffocating hands, freezing the inside of his lungs. Like the cold that blanketed Skellige. It emphasises further, and more cruelly, just how far away from home Ameer is. Just how alien this world is to him. Even the cold is different.

Wrapping his cloak around himself more closely and securing his gloves, Ameer walks through the village of Mulbrydale, which looks considerably different to how it did when he was running through it drunk last night. Just as he thought, most of the village is outside working: harvesting crops from fields; collecting firewood from the nearby forests; mending houses and fences. All important work to get finished before winter arrives, and the days become more dark than light.

He walks up to one of the field labourers, who stands still with his hoe in hand as Ameer approaches, watching him with a shocked and curious expression. Again, he sees no sign of Derek or his friends, which is a relief. “Greetings, and praise the world in its never-ending creation.”

The man jumps, as if he wasn’t expecting Ameer to talk. “Oh! Uh. Greetings.”

“I am looking for a herbalist. Is there one in this village?”

“Yes – she lives in a hut at the other end of the village. Door’s painted blue, has some chickens out front. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

Ameer continues his walk towards the herbalist hut. Children are playing on the paths – one retreats in fear as he walks past, running back to her mother who scoops her up protectively. The other, though, totters after him with wide eyes. He tugs on the hem of Ameer’s cloak.

Instantly, Ameer struggles to fight the pain in his chest at the sight of the child. Visions from an Ofieri hospital cloud his mind. He pushes them down. He can’t focus on that now.

“What is it?” He asks the boy instead, forcing a smile.

“Why is your skin like that?” He asks with all the tact of a child.

Ameer kneels down. “Why is _yours_ like that?”

The boy looks taken aback. “Well, everyone’s is like mine!”

“Everyone here. This village is very cold, is it not?”

“I s’ppose.”

“Where I live is very hot, so I look different to you. Where I live, everyone would think _you_ looked odd.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you an elf too?”

He had his hood up, but the boy’s noticed anyway. “I am. How could you tell?”

“Because you don’t have pointy teeth! My friend Johnny says that elves don’t have pointy teeth. And you don’t.”

Not always, Ameer thinks with amusement. “Very observant.”

With unabashed curiosity, the boy grabs Hjalmar’s knife. “What’s this?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ameer quickly takes it back from him. “That is not for children.”

“Awww…Why not?”

“You’re too young; you might hurt yourself. And that would be a terrible shame.”

The boy pouts. “That’s not fair. I’m very grown up. I’m eight and a half years old, you know. I bet I’m almost as old as you.”

“Almost.” About 292 years off. “But you have to be much older before you can play with knives.”

He folds her arms crossly. “Why do all the grown-ups get to do the cool things?”

“We have to do lots of boring things too. We do not get to play all day. Now, go along. Play with your friend.”

He begins walking, but the boy grabs his cloak again. “Where’re you goin’?”

“To go see the herbalist in this village.”

“That’s my ma!” The boy walks ahead of Ameer, clutching onto his cloak. “I’ll show you!”

Oh well. At least he won’t get lost now. Ameer follows the eager boy, making a deliberate effort to slow down his own pace.

“My name’s Danny.”

“Nice to meet you. I am Ameer.”

“Why do you have a knife but no sword?”

“It was a gift.”

“Are you good at fighting?”

“I avoid it when I can. As should you.”

“Dad said he was going to teach me fighting. So that if soldiers came to the house I could protect myself.”

“Do many soldiers come to your house?”

Danny’s face drops. He stops walking abruptly; Ameer almost crashes into him.

“Are you all right?”

“…Don’t you know? About when all the soldiers were here? And they would go to houses and they’d steal stuff and if you tried to stop them they’d kill you. The soldiers were trying to take the horses. And they killed dad.”

“…I am very sorry, Danny.” Ameer crouches down beside him as the boy wipes his eyes angrily. “That sounds terrible.” He must be talking about the Nilfgaardian war. This is a region that has suffered greatly at the hands of invaders.

Danny scowls, looking away. “Ma says that things are all better now, and that the road means we have more money from selling things, and that the soldiers won’t come again, but…every time the strangers come to our house, I get nervous. Especially the Black Ones. Ma says I shouldn’t be rude to them, because we have a lot of Black Ones as customers, but I can’t help it. And I want to be ready to fight anyway.”

What a cruel irony. The Nilfgaardian soldiers killed Danny’s father, and now are important customers for his mother. He is surprised at how the grieving widow has been able to compartmentalise the two. “…Do you want some fighting advice?” Ameer asks.

Danny nods eagerly. “What? What?”

“If you are getting into a fight, the best thing to do is run away.” Ameer says seriously.

“What?” Danny pouts. “That sounds stupid.”

“It is the best way to guarantee you do not get hurt.” Ameer counters. “Run far away from the situation. There is no shame in fleeing.”

“I thought you were going to tell me _real_ fighting tips.” He scowls. “It’s not fair. Witold said he would give me fighting tips, and then he just said the same too!”

Ameer freezes. “Witold?”

“Yeah! He’s ginger and he has a bendy sword. He’s really cool!”

Witold, as in the man Ameer kissed last night. “I see.”

“I asked if he would teach me how to fight, and I thought he was going to teach me cool sword moves, but he just said to run away too.”

“Where is Witold now?”

“I saw him leaving this morning, to do a job in the swamps.”

“What a shame.” Ameer hides his relief. The last thing he wants is to run into the man. “Well, if you really want some fighting advice, I will tell you some more.”

“Oh?”

“Use the side of your hand to hit the throat. That will make them lose their breath.”

“Wow. That’s so cool!”

“But if the person has a sword, or an axe, or any kind of weapon? You run, child. You run and do not stop running.”

“What if they have a bow? Then what do you do?”

“Run in a zig-zag. You will be harder to hit. Or, if you are very close, you try to knock the bow out of their hands.”

“You have a bow.” Danny points to it. “Are you any good with it? Nora says that all elves are good with bows.”

“Not all – but I am.”

“Can I see?”

“Hm…Maybe later.”

“I’ll tell ma to give you a discount!”

Ameer stands in a field, bow in hand, far from any of the workers. In the distance, he can hear the faint rushing of a river. Most of the crops have been harvested, and only a few rotted and unwanted remains are left in the tumultuous soil.

“Do many people frequent this area?” Ameer asks.

“No. This field is finished, and no one goes through the forests near the river anymore.” Before Ameer can ask why, Danny runs forwards and grabs a rotted ear of corn. “Hit this!”

“Put it on the fence.”

The boy runs to the end of the field and places the corn on a fence post. He watches Ameer excitedly, hopping from one foot to the other.

Just behind Danny, Ameer glimpses movement in the bushes. Very subtle, very quiet, but Ameer sees it anyway. A pair of amber eyes peer out of the foliage. A lupine face hides in the undergrowth.

A wolf. Its gaze is not on Ameer, but on the boy. Ameer better deal with this.

He sends out a command to the wolf.

 _Step away_.

He always described this power as bewitchment to Yennefer, and Regis seemed under the impression that this was his skill as well. But really, it’s more complicated than that. Rather than the simple ability to bewitch other creatures, Ameer always considered this ability to be on a spectrum. At one end, he would have a simple, one-sided conversation with the creature. A suggestion that the creature usually follows of its own accord. Monsters and animals enjoy being part of Fox Mother schemes. Simply asking them to do something – even if it’s dangerous – is normally enough.

But on the other end of the spectrum lies true bewitchment. The more sentient the creature, and the more abhorrent the task, the more likely the creature is to refuse. And in that case, a Fox Mother can force her will.

The more powerful a Fox Mother, and the more familiar she is with her targets, the easier it is to command. Creatures will be so enthralled and excited by her games and suggestions, they’ll happily do anything she suggests without the need for bewitchment – including allowing themselves to be killed. In Ofier, his mother emitted such a supremely beautiful and alluring aura, all the creatures of the mountains would follow any suggestion she wanted. Really, his mother didn’t even need to hunt if she wanted to. She could just ask the prey to come to her. The only reason she didn’t was not to upset the ecosystem of the mountains, and the belief that relying on her abilities alone would encourage arrogant complacency – a dangerous mindset to have in the mountain wilds.

She’d been right about that. After being shackled in dimeritium for so long, Ameer struggled to bewitch other creatures. He’d never been that good at the skill in comparison to his mother and sisters – another reason why his mother encouraged normal hunting – and he never stooped so far into laziness that he asked his prey to give up and die rather than giving them a fair chance on principal…but even so, it had been frightening. Like forgetting how to walk.

The creatures in Skellige were particularly difficult to control. The siren he convinced to attack Arvid the steward had resisted strongly, and the fiend chasing Geralt was so stubborn, Ameer didn’t even bother trying. As stubborn as the people of those islands, Ameer thinks bitterly. He’d been relieved in Novigrad when the monsters and animals were far more docile and easier to control. Drowners have always been pushovers, and animals are usually easy to influence. He hopes the creatures in Velen are the same.

At the very least, the wolves in Velen are easy to persuade. This one seems hungry – no doubt it was eyeing up the boy as a desperate, easy meal – but it relents to Ameer’s request, and slips away back into the undergrowth.

“Stand back.” Ameer calls over to Danny. Even without the wolf, he shouldn’t be so close to the target.

“Okay!” He doesn’t back away very far. Ameer sighs. Oh well – he’s confident enough in his own skills that he won’t hit him.

Ameer draws back his elbow, keeps his body taut and straight, uses the strength of his back, inhales deeply and evenly. The actions are all second nature to him.

When he releases the arrow, it hits the rotten ear corn, just as he knew it would. The scraps burst into pieces, and Danny jumps.

“Wow!” He grabs it off the ground, pulls out the arrow, and runs back to Ameer. “Do another!”

Ameer obliges, entertaining the boy as he hits various scraps again and again. Soon, Danny begins tossing the scraps high into the air, and watching as Ameer shoots them before they hit the ground.

“That’s so cool!” He returns the arrow once more. “I’ve never seen _anyone_ shoot so good! Can I have a go?”

Ameer smiles. “I think this bow is too big for you.”

“Please? Can I just try?”

“All right.” Ameer gives him the bow, and sets up the arrow for him. “Try and shoot over by the fence. Keep your feet a shoulder’s width apart, at an angle to the target.”

Scrunching his face in concentration, Danny draws back his arm as far as he can, then lets go – and the arrow drops to the ground, barely moving a foot forward.

“Aww…” Danny looks embarrassed. “How do you make it go so far?”

“Practice. Lots of practice.” Ameer ruffles his hair. “Archery is good – you can fight without getting too close to the battle. And you can use it for hunting, too. Find someone in the village to teach you. Practise every day, again and again, and then you can be as good as me.”

“Can you teach me?”

“I will not be staying here long, so I am afraid not. But I can give you some more advice. Use the strength of your shoulders, too, not just your wrist.”

Danny tries again – but he’s far too young and small for the size of the bow. Even with his best efforts, he just can’t get the string far back enough. It’ll barely go forwards at all.

Ameer feels sorry for him, so he kneels down and secretly pulls the string back far, hiding himself behind an illusion. When Danny lets go this time, the arrows flies far beyond the field, over the fence.

Danny watches with an expression of sheer awe. “Wow…Did I do that?”

“You did. See? You have the makings of a great archer.”

Danny grins, and hands back the bow. “Thank you!”

“I will go fetch the arrow.” Ameer slings the bow over his shoulder. “Then I would like this discount, please.”

As he walks, Danny hurries after him. And just as Ameer is about the climb over the fence, Danny grabs on his cloak again.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” He asks timidly.

“To get the arrow. Is something wrong?”

“You can’t go over there!” Danny pulls harder on his cloak. “It’s dangerous!”

Ameer kneels down in front of the boy. He looks so frightened. “Dangerous? How so?”

Danny screws the hem of his shirt nervously. “It’s too close to the river. Everyone knows that you mustn’t go near the river!”

“Why not? Is something wrong with it?”

“It’s not the river itself…” Danny stares down at the ground. “It’s…you know…”

Ameer tilts his head. “What is it, Danny?”

The boy leans forwards, his voice low. “It’s the Ladies. You know?”

Of course. “The Ladies?”

“Ma says I’m not allowed to talk about them. She says they’re just horrible fairy stories and they’re not real and I shouldn’t speak about them, but I _know_ they’re real.”

“Have you seen them?” Ameer asks, partly horrified.

“No. But my friend has. He’s called Johnny. He’s a…he’s like a blue fairy man.”

“A blue fairy man?”

“Yeah. Ma thinks he’s just imaginary, but he’s real! We play together. And he says that he’s seen the Ladies plenty of times. ‘Cept he calls them the Crones.”

“I believe you. But I do need to get this arrow. It will not be far.” Ameer begins to climb, only to be pulled back again.

“You can’t go near the river! It’s dangerous!” Danny insists. “There are all sorts of monsters around there! They’re all friends with the Ladies, so you can’t go near it! Nora’s dog was running around and it went beyond this field and towards the river and then it didn’t come back and I heard Ma saying it had been ‘torn apart’! A-And if the Ladies get you they’ll eat you! That’s what I heard mister Matthews saying to Ma! It’s really scary near the river! You can’t go there!”

He’s beginning to cry. Poor thing. Ameer places his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Calm down. I will stay away from the river. I will not go far – if I cannot find the arrow, I will give up. All right?”

Danny rubs his face. “O-Ok.”

“Good. Now you stay here – do not try to follow me. Stay here, and try to count all the insects you can find in this field. When I come back, tell me how many you’ve spotted.”

At this, Danny frowns. “Why?”

“It is a very important task, all right? A _grown up_ task. Do this for me, yes?”

At this, Danny brightens up. “A-All right!” Good. A menial task to distract him from his fear, and also stop him from following Ameer, if this area is as dangerous as he says.

While Danny starts about his pointless mission with the solemnness of a commander, Ameer vaults over the fence and walks towards the forest. He has no fear – he is so far from the river – but he also recognises that this land is strange and frightening. The boy has sense to be so worried, and Ameer would be a fool not to be cautious.

It doesn’t take Ameer long to understand Danny’s fear.

The further he walks in the forest, the louder he can hear the river rushing. His eyes scan the undergrowth, searching for the missing arrow. In a place like Velen, he doesn’t want to waste any.

He doesn’t find the arrow. He finds something much worse.

The deer lies on the grass. It’s barely alive. A stag. Its legs are wounded and bloodied. Its flanks have been ripped at savagely by some monster. The snout is stained with blood. Ameer can see the terrible, gory glistening of its innards. The wounds look fresh, yet are already tinged with foul-smelling gangrene.

Quickly, he looks around the clearing. This can’t have been the work of that lone wolf – why abandon this prey and target the boy instead? But he doesn’t see any monsters lurking, either, finishing the chase and ready to close in on the wounded animal. Whatever delivered this fatal blow isn’t here to finish what it started.

As the stag heaves laboriously, Ameer realises that it’s wet. Completely soaked. As if it’s been swimming…

Swallowing, Ameer kneels down beside it. Places his hand on the stag’s head. It stares at him with pained, glassy eyes. Whatever did this was not seeking to eat. No self-respecting predator would injure a stag to the point of death, only to abandon the hunt.

There’s nothing he can do for the beast. Well, there’s one thing.

Carefully, Ameer unsheathes his knife. The stag doesn’t flinch. Even if it was afraid, it doesn’t have the energy to move anymore.

Ameer moves his hand in circular movements over the stag’s head, concentrating hard. He feels the energy pricking his fingertips as green light begins to glow from his outstretched hand. The stag’s breathing begins to ease, the pain from its injuries relieved.

In a fluid, quick movement, Ameer slits the stag’s throat. The stag barely even notices. It passes away without pain.

Sighing, Ameer stands up, stepping quickly out of the way of the blood. What a waste. The wound is all rotten – no scavengers will touch this. Ameer can’t even see flies buzzing around the body.

More rustling catches his attention. The same set of amber eyes stares at him from behind withered leaves, and a black nose sniffs the air.

“You again.” Ameer smiles. _Come out. Don’t be afraid._

Cautiously, the wolf steps out, and Ameer is shocked to see how thin it is.

Unlike the wolves in Skellige, with their snow-white pelts, this one has fur the colour of a storm, tinged with brown and red. But beneath the heavy pelt, Ameer sees a gaunt body. Its legs tremble, and the fur of its scruff is matted and blood stained. It looks at the dead stag sadly, muzzle dripping with saliva and its body shaking in anticipation. However, it doesn’t move forward. It looks starving, yet doesn’t even take a bite of the easily available meal in front of it. Just like the flies and birds, it won’t touch this corpse.

This must be the Crone’s doing, Ameer thinks. Or whatever attacked the stag. The meat has been tainted, ruining it for any hopeful scavenger that could’ve benefitted from an otherwise pointless death.

A spark of anger burns inside Ameer. No. Not if he has anything to do with it.

Carefully, he kneels in front of the stag. The edges of the wound are rotted – does this have something to do with why the scavengers won’t touch it? Is it poisoned?

Hm. Back when Geralt’s soul still resided in his body, before Scaradh, Ameer had attempted a few spells to dispel the poison. One was a very old Aen Elle spell, from sorcery used before the Age of Migration. It was a transmutation charm, one that transforms something – normally poison or rot – into harmless snow and ice. It hadn’t worked on Geralt, of course, but maybe it will work here.

Spreading out his hands, Ameer begins to chant. “Tiontaigh an nimh go sneachta agus leáigh uaidh.” He feels a sharp, cold power seeping from his fingertips onto the deer. He directs the power onto the rot, deep inside, to the very poison itself and overwhelms it.

When he opens his eyes, the green rot has vanished. In its place, a layer of snow and frost has settled in the wound of the stag.

Instantly, noise returns to the forest. Overhead, he can hear the caw of ravens and crows as they spy the corpse eagerly. The sound of buzzing becomes gradually louder as flies begin to settle upon the stag.

But the wolf claims first priority over the corpse. Ecstatic, it bounds over to Ameer, almost knocking him over with its brute strength as it says ‘thank you’ in its own wolf-like way. It shoves its muzzle in his face, giving him a good lick – Ameer keeps his mouth firmly closed. It places its paws on his shoulders, almost knocking him over, and its tail wags ferociously.

Then it turns to the stag, ripping into the flesh happily. There should be more than enough to keep it well fed for a while. Soon, more scavengers begin to descend – among them, Ameer spots a raven with a white feather on his breast. Tatanu is here to feed, too. Nothing will be wasted.

Standing up, Ameer continues his search for the arrow. It’s difficult though; the bloody thing seems to have disappeared, and the noise of the feast behind him is distracting. He glances over to the wolf again, and frowns. Wolves are pack animals. That is a constant – whether in Ofier, Velen or Skellige, wolves try to travel in packs. And this one is too old to be starting a new pack, or trying to find a new mate. Why is it all by itself?

Another noise in the bushes catches his attention.

Ameer pauses. There. Another rustle. And breathing, too. Very quiet, and masked by the sound of the river, but audible all the same.

He glances up, and the golden eyes watching him are a moment too slow in retreating back into the foliage. But these are not lupine.

Ameer stands up. “Hello? Who is there?”

The bushes rustle again. “No one…” It sounds like a child’s voice.

Ameer folds his arms. “All right, no one. Have you seen my arrow?”

After a moment of hesitation, the bushes part way, and a small figure steps forwards.

The person has the height and appearance of a child, but with some key differences. Namely, his skin is entirely blue. His eyes are wide, round, and golden. Red cloth is tied around his shoulders, and a messy crown of twigs sits upon his tangled hair.

Ah, a godling. Or the ‘blue fairy man’ Danny mentioned.

“Your name is Johnny, yes?” Ameer asks. “Danny’s friend.”

The godling, who holds his hands behind his back, shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You know, I have met godlings before. And they are normally very talkative.”

Johnny scowls. “Well, normally I do like to have a natter, but today I’m very cross.”

“And why is that?”

“I was havin’ my morning stroll, I’ll have you know. After I clear my bowels, I like to go for a mornin’ stroll around the forest. I whistle a tune that all the blackbirds like to listen to and copy – goodness knows they need some cheering up as of late!” Here is the famed chattiness. “So I’m just in the middle of singin’ the best bit when this arrow flies out of nowhere and lands in the tree right next to me! Almost took me head off! I yelp, as you would do, and it completely ruins the song! It was so embarrassing! All the blackbirds were laughing at me! I was completely mortified!”

“I am very sorry about that. We thought there would be no one around in this area – Danny tells me it is very dangerous here.”

Johnny scoffs. “For normal people. Not for _me_. I’m fast and I’m good at hiding.”

Ameer points over to the stag. “As I understand it, deer are fast too. That did not save this one.”

At those words, Johnny’s face falls. “It’s a big shame, isn’t it? At least the animals can eat it, now that you’ve got rid of all the badness.” He hesitates, then holds out the arrow in his fist.

“I was gonna hide it from you, for making a fool of me. But I saw you were nice to the stag and the wolf, so I _suppose_ you can have it back.”

“Thank you very much.” Ameer puts it safely back in the quiver. “I need to save these arrows for where I am travelling to.”

“You’re going south? To Crookback Bog?” Johnny shakes his head. “That’s stupid. Why are you doing that?”

“We are looking for a man called Tye. He has brown hair, a red strip of cloth across his forehead, and is very nervous. He smells of flowers and is mean to animals.”

“Oh, that fellow! I haven’t seen him myself, but I’ve heard of him.” Johnny picks up a rock and begins carving something into the bark of a tree. “The blackbirds say he’s very odd. He was wandering around Crookback Bog, last I heard. Why?”

“He hurt a friend of ours.” Ameer explains. “So we are searching for him. We know he is looking for the Crone, so we are travelling to Crookback Bog to try and intercept him.” The second Tye finds the Crone, he’ll either leave Velen to who knows where, or she’ll kill him. The latter seems more likely.

At this, Johnny pauses. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Well, normally I’d say, ‘you’re in luck! He’ll never find the Crone!’ She’s been very reclusive as of late. She doesn’t like visitors, and just hides away in her orphanage instead.”

“But?” Ameer dreads to hear what will come next.

“Like I said, this Tye fellow is very…strange. At least, the blackbirds and foxes seem to think so. And they say he’s got no fear of the Crone. If anyone can get past her tricks and traps, it’s him. And he stinks of…of badness. The Crone likes badness.”

“Badness?”

“Those fancy elves from four years ago stank of badness too, and the Crones would throw parties for them every year – it was a _different_ kind of badness, true, but badness all the same. And the Crone likes badness. If she shows for anyone, she’ll show herself to him.”

Shit. That doesn’t bode well for them. Finding him before he reaches the Crone has just become a lot more urgent.

“If you see that man, stay away from him.” Ameer warns the godling. “He is very dangerous.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice! A stinky man who wants to find the Crone and throws rocks at ravens and foxes – what would he do to the likes of you or me? Probably nothing good.” He looks Ameer up and down. “Speaking of…You _are_ a vulpess, right? Don’t mean to be rude, but you’re a little different than the ones I know.”

Here we go. The inevitable explanation. “My Mother made a mistake. She picked me instead of my twin sister.”

“Is your normal form still a fox, like most other vulpesses?”

“Yes, it is.” Ameer allows his more fox-like appearance to show. “Though my intermediate form is not as…intimidating.”

Johnny grins. He leans forwards and brushes the hair along Ameer’s ears, laughing as they twitch. “Huh. It looks _different_ to what I’m used to. Didn’t realise foxes could be sandy instead of red!”

“You have met other Fox Mothers before?”

“Oh yes. There’s one who lives here in the swamps! Well. Used to. She’s leaving now, her and her daughter. Just like me.”

Ameer frowns. “You are leaving? Why?”

“Well…” Johnny sighs, kicking the grass glumly. “Times’re changing. The land’s changing too. They call it ‘progress’, but…that doesn’t include folk like us. I always thought Velen would remain quiet and old forever. But the people are moving on – or they were, anyway. Before the Crone got angry.”

“The Crone got angry?”

“Yes. Because they’re forgetting all about her. She’s been making the land sick. All the crops are dying, burdock is sprouting up everywhere – and we godlings hate burdock! The monsters are becoming even meaner than before, too. Even I can’t live next to them!”

That is strange. In Ofier, the godlings always got on well with the nearby monsters, no matter their sentience or lack thereof.

“She used to tolerate me, you know. She and her sisters. They’d even invite me to their sabbath on the mountain. But now, she’s chased me out. She doesn’t want me around anymore. That’s why I’m up here, so far away from my lovely burrow. It’s too dangerous in Crookback Bog, even for me. I’m waiting for winter to pass before I leave these lands. It’s a lose-lose situation for me – the Crone has stopped all the progress, but she’s chased me out. If the Crone stops, then progress continues and I have to leave anyway.”

“I am very sorry to hear about that.” Ameer says genuinely.

Johnny shrugs sadly, and turns back to the carving. “You must know what it’s like. Humans grow so quickly. I like playing with the children, but…there’s just no room for people like us anymore. And if the Crone carries on like this, there won’t be room for _anyone_ anymore. Everyone’ll starve by the end of winter at this rate.”

Witold said the same. A blight, unlike any ever seen before. Even dead animals are becoming impossible to eat, judging by that stag.

A whine pricks up Ameer’s ears. He barely has time to turn before the wolf bounds into him again, tail wagging as she clambers over him excitedly. Her muzzle reeks of blood and gore. He tries not to grimace.

Johnny laughs again. “She likes you. She’s saying thank you. She was really hungry.”

Ameer strokes her behind the ears. She likes that. “Where is her family?”

“Gone. They belong to the Crone now.”

“Oh.” Ameer feels a pang for the wolf. “Poor thing.”

“She’s lucky to have got out of Crookback Bog herself, before the Crone took her too. And all the animals are leaving too, if they can. No wonder she’s so hungry.”

Ameer glances at the stag’s ravaged body. “…Could you explain something for me, Johnny?”

“What is it?”

“In Ofier, we do not have stags like these, so I am unfamiliar with their behaviours. Do stags swim?”

“Yeah! They don’t go out of their way to swim, but if they have to, they swim pretty well!”

“This one went for a swim.” Ameer looks at the gaping wounds. “It crossed the river trying to escape from a monster, yes?”

“Probably. And you see those plants on its hooves?” Johnny points. “Those are from the southern swamps. This stag ran a long, long way, maybe even all across Crookback Bog, then across the river to here.”

“And whatever was _chasing_ it ran all that way, too.” Ameer sighs. “Why all this effort, only to give up now?”

“Well, the Crone’s angry.” Johnny continues carving onto the wood. “I can’t say to know what goes on in her cruel mind, but I know she must be angry.”

“Because of the progress?” Ameer guesses.

“Exactly.” Johnny dusts off some wood shavings. “She got caught off guard by the big road and by Lettina. She wasn’t paying attention, and now that they’ve built it, she’s angry.” Lettina is the big Nilfgaardian town in the south, on the outskirts of Velen, Ameer remembers. So the Crone’s angry about that, too?

“You seem to know the Crones well.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve known them my whole life, longer than you’ve been alive!” Indeed, godlings are deceptively old. “They’ve been around much longer than me, of course, but we know each other well.”

Hm. This could be useful. “Then maybe you can explain something to me. Apparently people have been speaking of someone called He-Who-Listened. Do you know who that is?”

Johnny crosses his arms and thinks hard for a few minutes. “…Blimey, that was a while ago…Let me think…He was from the Long Ago time, I think. Back when She-Who-Knows was around – the Crone’s mother. He was a villager here in Velen. A handsome hunter with hair black as peat, or so the stories go. It was from before I was born, so I don’t know the details exactly. I think he was killed by She-Who-Knows, but I can’t be sure. Problem is, the Crones love to lie and twist the truth in order to favour themselves. You can’t trust any story you’ve heard about them; they’ve probably changed it at some point in time to make themselves look good. So, that He-Who-Listened fellow – I can’t be sure, since I wasn’t there myself.”

Interesting. Ameer will have to tell Yennefer about this.

Johnny points to the tree. “See this carving?”

Ameer examines it. It’s a three-way spiral. Crooked and asymmetrical. “What is it?”

“This is the Crone’s mark. Whatever’s marked with it belongs to her. If you see this, then you know her power is particularly strong.” After a moment, Johnny slashes the symbol with his rock, disrupting it. “Be careful out there. The Crone is mean, cruel, vindictive. Don’t cross her. And if you do have the misfortune of falling into one of her traps, remember that she’s arrogant. Use that to your advantage.”

“Thank you for the advice. And thank you for the arrow. You know, I hear there is a godling living in Novigrad. Her name is Sarah. Perhaps, if you want somewhere to wait out the winter, you could go there?” Being a godling, she’d probably like the company.

Johnny grins. “You know, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Good luck in your journey, mister vulpess.”

“And good luck in yours.” They’ll both need it, that’s for certain.

-

By the time Ameer returns to the inn, the sun has risen entirely. At first, the wolf tried to follow him back into the village, but at the sight of humans hung back on the peripheries. No one notices her presence, too busy in their field labour.

Inside, the tavern side of the inn has gotten busier too. A few travellers like themselves are sitting at tables, eating breakfast. And, standing next to Zoltan’s table, Yennefer speaks with heavy exasperation in her tone.

“What were you thinking?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Getting so hungover like this?”

Zoltan sits with his eyes closed, looking somewhat green. All he has the energy to do is mumble the word ‘sorry’.

Sitting next to him, Regis rifles through his bag. “Let me see if I have anything to help ease the nausea.”

“No need.” Ameer calls, walking over. He sits down opposite Regis. “I managed to purchase plenty – and for a discount, at that.”

“We were wondering where you were.” Regis smiles. “You’ve had a busy morning, then?”

“Oh yes. I have explored the village quite thoroughly.” Ameer takes out the herbs and places them on the table.

“I hope you didn’t run into your friends from last night?” Yennefer asks with a hint of concern.

“No, no. Even if I did, I would just hide myself. Though, I did meet someone else who told me some very interesting things.”

Diligently, Regis crafts a concoction for Zoltan, who gulps it down with a grimace. While he works, Ameer describes his conversation with Johnny, making sure to keep his voice down when mentioning the Crone.

“So she’s even driven godlings out of her territory…And he thinks the Crone is angry because of the road being built, and the large Nilfgaardian town in the south?” Yennefer summarises.

“Yes. Though someone I spoke with last night,” he is reluctant to speak too much about Wtiold, “told me there are plenty of worshippers in Crookback Bog. He also told me about a blight affecting the crops – one I assume has been sent by the Crone. Johnny confirmed this. But why punish her active worshippers? Why not target the people here, who seem to have given up on the Crone?”

“That is odd.” Yennefer thinks about it for a while. “And that man he mentioned, He-Who-Listened, I’ve never heard of him. Neither Geralt nor Ciri ever mentioned him.”

“Hm.” That wasn’t the answer Ameer was expecting. “Apparently people have been worshipping him, too. He must be important to their folklore. Yet neither mentioned him?”

“Ciri wasn’t in Velen for long, and Geralt never really liked talking about his encounters here – there’s a chance he simply failed to mention it.” She reasons. “I suppose we can find out more as we move into Crookback Bog. What about this symbol, then?”

Ameer draws it out on a piece of parchment. “This. He said, if we see it, the Crone’s influence is strong.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” Yennefer examines it carefully. “Though I suppose there isn’t much existing written knowledge on the Crones anyway…”

He understands the subtle concern in her voice. There’s so much they don’t know about this Crone. That leaves them vulnerable to a lot of unpleasant surprises.

Regis examines the symbol carefully. An expression of unease settles on his face.

“What is it?” Ameer asks.

“Nothing. I just…I really don’t like that symbol. I’ve never seen it before, but…” He touches his chest. “I don’t like it.”

Ameer quickly takes the symbol and scribbles it out. “I do not like it either.” It’s as if its simple existence is invoking the Crone’s presence. As if she can see them through those three twisted lines.

The talk of the Crone quickly stops when Dulla joins them at the table. Though honestly, this reason for stopping the conversation is an excuse. Dulla probably wouldn’t care much – after all, his destination is Toussaint, not the swamps. But this way, they have an excuse to stop talking about the being who inspires so much uncertain dread inside of them.

“Greetings, my friends!” Dulla sits down, looking completely fresh and alert. “How are you doing this morning?”

Ameer smiles upon seeing him. As always, he feels that confliction of familial ease, and cautious vigilance. How easy and comforting it is to speak with Dulla, with the only person who truly understands what it’s like to miss home.

But there’s always that risk. One single mistake, and if Dulla realises who Ameer is…

“We are doing well.” Ameer forces away those anxious thoughts. “And Zoltan is doing…better.”

Zoltan groans. He doesn’t look quite as ill as before, and is slowly eating plain porridge. “You’re tellin’ me…Not makin’ that mistake again.” He looks up at Ameer. “I hear you had a lively evenin’ too after I left.”

“Something like that.” Ameer says vaguely.

“What is this? What did you get up to without me? Not too much fun, I hope?” Dulla asks.

“Ameer won a rigged gwent match.” Zoltan says with a grin. “Then I hear he and this other fellow Witold started a bar fight and ran away!”

“A fight?” Dulla laughs. “Goodness! Perhaps it is fortunate that I went to bed early!”

“What happened to Witold, then?” Zoltan asks. “After the fight?”

Ameer tries hard not to glance over at Regis and Yennefer – who he imagines are trying very hard not to glance at him, after what he blurted out last night. “Honestly? I cannot remember. My memory is all blurred.”

Dulla laughs. “It seems the alcohol here is stronger than expected! It should be good practice for when I finally reach Toussaint.” He takes a drink of tea. “Oh, even thinking of Toussaint makes me excited. I am desperate to reach that land and leave this wet, soggy region – I thought there could be no place colder than Novigrad, and yet I have been proven wrong! I was shivering all night! At least nights in Toussaint will be much warmer!”

Ameer smiles along, but instantly a sadness overtakes him. Dulla will be leaving their group soon, travelling to Newmoor while he treks into Crookback Bog. Ameer will certainly miss him.

And so, as the group leaves Mulbrydale and continues their journey south, Ameer rides alongside Dulla. Together, speaking in Ofieri, they use the journey as an opportunity to talk before they are inevitably separated. They travel along a forest path, where the birds are far quieter than Ameer expected. Tatanu flies ahead of them, darting back and forth in the trees, often returning with grubs in his beak. Occasionally, Ameer catches sight of the wolf following them through the forest, watching with curious eyes. Aside from her, their passageway remains undisturbed. The road probably contributes to this – Ameer wonders how much of the forest has been hacked away to make room for it. A handy path for some, like Dulla with his caravan, but a sad event for others. How many inhabitants like Johnny have been driven away? And it seems this Nilfgaardian crusade hasn’t ended; Ameer can hear distant shouts coming from within the forest, coupled with the sound of saws and cracking branches. More trees being felled.

“ _My bed had bugs in it._ ” Dulla shakes his head in disgust. “ _The whole room now smells of incense in my attempt to flush them out_.”

Ameer laughs. “ _Being in Priscilla’s inn has spoilt me. I have a feeling that sleeping in Velen will be rough._ ”

“ _Oh, even Priscilla’s inn is nothing compared to my bed back home_.” Dulla sighs. “ _You could sleep through a tornado in that thing_.”

Ameer glances at his wistful face. “ _Do you miss home?”_

“ _Of course. It’s been three years since I last visited_.” Dulla smiles sadly. “ _We’ve made so much progress and we’ve been so busy with our business, but…I do miss it. Dearly_.”

Ameer speaks quietly. “… _I do, too_.”

“ _The warmth, the smell of the market place, the music from a performer playing in the street_ ,” each word strikes Ameer with a terrible ache for his house in the city, “ _being able to easily buy the right fabric, the right incense, the right drink without paying a fortune from traders…_ ” Dulla grins. “ _Food with actual flavour_.”

Ameer laughs. “ _Oh, how I miss that_ …”

“ _The beautiful sight of the palace_ …” Dulla glances over. “ _You know, I never really clarified: you’re from the mountains, yes?”_

“ _How could you tell?”_

“ _Your accent. Me? I’m a city man, born and bred. Have you ever visited the capital?_ ”

“ _Once, when I was a young child_.” In truth, Ameer lived there for 40 years, longer than Dulla has been alive. “ _I can’t remember much, only the feeling that it was very beautiful._ ”

“ _You’re right there.”_ Dulla sighs wistfully. “ _You miss the mountains, then? Hadji talks about them frequently._ ”

“ _I do. Greatly_.”

“ _What are they like? I’ve never been myself_.”

Ameer looks up at the sky. “ _They are hard to live on, certainly. But if you know how, the rewards are plentiful. The air is cleaner and sharper, the views are glorious, and the skies…”_ This one is overcast and miserable. “ _When the sun rises and sets, when the moon is full, when the stars are out on display…”_ He trails off, lost in the memory of sitting at a campfire with his mother and sisters, naming the constellations above. He misses them.

“ _It sounds very beautiful, my friend_.” Dulla hesitates. “ _May I ask, what brought you here? To the north?_ ”

“… _Yennefer. We are old friends, you see. I was visiting her and something came up. Now my visit has become much longer, as I am helping her_.” It’s not a complete lie.

“ _I see_.” Dulla looks him up and down. “ _You and her…Are you…?”_

Ameer laughs. “ _Oh, no! Absolutely not. We are just good friends. I would trust her with my life, but it is strictly platonic._ ”

“ _Is Regis an old friend, too?”_

“ _Honestly, I have not known him for very long, but he is a good friend. Very kind. He makes us feel safe.”_

“ _He makes you feel safe?”_

“ _Yes. Why?”_

“ _Nothing. He is just…quite old, yes?_ ”

Ameer smiles. If only Dulla knew. “ _He is old, true. But you can rely on him. Trust me_.”

“Ameer!” Regis’s voice catches his attention. “Come here!”

“ _I’d better go see what’s wrong_.” Nudging his horse with his heels, Ameer brings it to the front of the procession where Regis is. When he follows Regis’s gaze, though, he quickly understands why he’s been summoned.

Sitting in the middle of the road are two men. One is swearing very loudly in Common, cradling his hand. Blood seeps from his fingers onto the ground. The other man kneels anxiously next to him, face peaked in panic as he hovers his own hands uselessly over the wound, clearly not knowing what to do.

“We’d best go over and check if they’re all right. I can smell a lot of blood coming from that wound, even from here.” Regis tells him.

“I’ll stay behind with Zoltan and Dulla, in case it’s an ambush.” Yennefer decides. “You can never be too careful in Velen.”

Riding his horse over, Ameer dismounts and approaches the two men, Regis by his side. Getting closer, he can see that the blood is increasing at an alarming pace.

“We’re doctors.” Regis announces to the surprised men, kneeling down next to them. “Let us help.”

The injured man, who’s face has gone pale, holds out his hand. He still keeps the wound clamped with his other hand as an automatic instinct, though, and Regis must pry his fingers apart to check the damage.

Fortunately, all parts of the hand remain unsevered, but the wound is deep; tendons and muscles have been sliced through, and blood pools quickly in his palm. A blood vessel must’ve been damaged, too.

“Axe accident.” The man gasps. Even with the pain in his voice, Ameer can tell that this worker is a Temerian local. “Tripped and fell on the blade.”

“Here, let me.” Ameer holds his hands over the wound, not asking how the hell that happened. “Regis, hold the flesh together.”

Regis obliges, and Ameer casts a healing spell, focusing his energy on stitching together the severed tendons and blood vessel.

The man hisses in pain. When the green glow fades, he peers down at the wound, seeing that the most superficial layers are still gashed.

“I-Is it fixed?” He asks.

“Not quite. A wound of that severity will also need plenty of natural healing time. I focused on healing the important structures within, but your skin will have to mend by itself.” Ameer explains. He doesn’t want to waste too much of his energy on superficial damage.

The man’s face falls. “And that means?”

“It must be stitched, bandaged and unused for two weeks minimum.” Regis answers, taking out some bandages, thin gossamer thread and a needle from his bag. “I would recommend keeping it in a sling, so that you won’t be tempted to use it.”

“Shit…” The man rubs his forehead with his uninjured hand. He looks at his co-worker. “Go and collect up the equipment. I’m not doing any more work today.”

“Que?” His co-worker answers nervously. A Nilfgaardian.

The Temerian sighs in exasperation. “Saw. Axe. Hammer. Go get.”

“ _Your co-worker wants you to collect up his equipment, please._ ” Regis translates in perfect Nilfgaardian.

The man nods and runs off into the forest. The Temerian sighs, and eyes Regis with confusion. “That was very good Nilfgaardian, but you sound northern.”

“I am northern, but I think linguistic expertise is an important skill.” Regis begins stitching up the wound. “It’s very fortunate we happened to be passing by, you know. You could have bled out very quickly with a wound this deep.”

“You have my thanks for that.” The Temerian peers into the trees. “Though I wouldn’t call anything about this fucking mess fortunate. This whole project was doomed from the start.”

“What are you doing here?” Ameer asks curiously. “Are you felling more trees?”

“That’s the plan – some are pretty close to the road, and when the winter storms arrive, there’s always a risk that the weaker and older ones will fall down and block passageway.” He shakes his head. “So we’re identifying the weak trees and cutting them down. Well, we’re _meant_ to be. That bloody – ow!”

“I apologise.” Regis pauses in his stitching. “Please try to sit still – I don’t want to cause any additional damage.”

“Sorry. I just get so angry about it.” The Temerian sighs. “This job should’ve been finished by now, you know. That’s what they get for hiring people who don’t know shit about these forests.”

“What do you mean?” Ameer asks.

“Black Ones scoff at us locals, so they hire their own people for all these construction jobs. That’s fine if you want build a tavern or whatever, but when it comes to forestry, they’ve no clue what they’re doing. Of course they don’t – they don’t have these species down in their homeland. Not only can they not tell a strong tree from a diseased tree, they don’t even know the bloody difference between species!”

“Please sit still.” Regis reminds him gently as the Temerian becomes more enthusiastic in his rant.

“Sorry, sorry.” The Temerian sighs again. “They wizened up to this and hired me. Realised a local would help them identify the right trees better, and I’m the best logger around since Berem went missing four years ago. Problem is, they still insisted on keeping more Black Ones on the job.” He glances off into the forest. “That one is pretty good, nice and strong, but he can barely speak a lick of Common, so communication ain’t happening. His son, though – absolutely useless. Couldn’t tell an oak from a birch. You know, it’s his fault my hand’s all busted now!”

Ameer looks around the road and forest. He doesn’t see anyone else. “There are three of you?”

“He’s gone down to the river to fetch us some water after he left his axe hidden in the grass, the blade all but sticking up. I trip, fall over, hand catches on the blade. It’s the first basic rule of felling trees: don’t leave your axe out with the blade exposed!” The Temerian says bitterly. “His father should give up on him being a logger, he obviously ain’t cut out for it. Absolutely useless. And he started cutting the tree the wrong way, too. I tell you, this whole thing is fucking cursed.”

“He started cutting the tree the wrong way?” Regis asks. “Which tree?”

As if to answer, a large crack sounds from the treeline. A hefty sycamore, only a few paces away from them, begins to groan and fall. Onto the road.

“Shit!” The Temerian man shouts out in surprise. Regis and Ameer drag him backwards. Beyond the tree, Ameer sees Yennefer and Zoltan quickly pull their horses safely out of the way. With a heavy thud, the tree lands unceremoniously onto the road.

The Temerian man stares blankly at the tree for a moment. “…Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He shouts. “The whole reason we were cutting down trees was to avoid this! That fucking kid!”

“Never fear.” Regis says calmly. “We can move this out of the way.”

“How the hell you gonna manage to do that?” The Temerian demands.

“With magic.” Ameer approaches the fallen trunk and peers over the top. “Yennefer, I think we should use levitation to move this.”

“Gladly.” Yennefer dismounts her horse and approaches the tree from the other side. “Even if our horses might manage to make it over, Dulla’s caravan will be stuck.”

Holding out her hands, Yennefer casts a lilac glow over the tree. Ameer does the same, except his glow is green. Slowly, they begin to levitate the fallen tree – only a few inches from the ground, but it allows them to rotate it with ease.

That being said, the fallen trunk is heavy. Levitating and rotating it is more difficult than usual owing to its size. At least they don’t have to worry about a giant crystal golem about to step on them this time, though.

“See? I’m telling you this job is cursed!” The Temerian man is complaining to Regis as they shift the tree. “Not even just this job – the whole of Velen is cursed! I’m telling you!”

“Aren’t you from Velen?” Regis points out.

“So what if I am? I can still tell when something’s cursed!” The Temerian insists. “My hand near gets chopped off, the tree falls on the road, and that’s not nearly the worst! The crops are all dying in Crookback Bog, aid shipments going missing, children getting snatched up by bears and monsters – it’s all a horrible mess! Ever since He-Who –”

The Temerian man cuts off suddenly. Ameer pauses in his levitation to look back at him. His face has turned ashen, sweaty, gaunt – and not because of the pain in his hand.

“What was that?” Regis asks, a suspicious frown on his face.

“Nothing.” The Temerian man says too quickly. “Got confused. Nothing.”

That clearly wasn’t ‘nothing’. What was he trying to say? He-Who-Listened?

Ameer has no chance to ask, though. For a snarl catches his attention.

In the trees, he sees the wolf. She’s gone still. Her hackles are raised, her ears are flat back, her tail hangs between her legs, and she snarls loudly, staring down the road towards the distant river. But she doesn’t look angry. She looks frightened.

And she’s not the only one. Up ahead, Tatanu flies frantically around them, cawing loudly. He lands on Regis’s shoulder only to immediately take off again, flying in circles ahead of him. Regis stares at him intensely.

Running along the road towards them is a boy, most likely in his late teens. He looks terrified, panicked.

“Yr afron!” He shouts, doubling over when he reaches them, gasping for breath. “Y-Yr afron! Tree!” The river? Tree? What tree?

“What? What are you saying?” The Temerian man demands crossly.

With a trembling hand, the boy points down the road. “Y-Yr afron! Tree! H-Help!” He’s too shaken to say anything more.

But he doesn’t need to. Between him, Tatanu and the wolf, it’s clear that something is wrong.

“Tatanu’s saying it too. That something’s happening at the river. Something bad.” Regis frowns. “I think someone’s in trouble.”

He mounts his mule and turns to them. “For Tatanu to be this worried, it must be something serious. I’ll go and check.”

Yennefer nods curtly in agreement. “We shouldn’t take such things lightly. Go, we’ll catch up.”

As he rides away, Ameer turns quickly to Yennefer. “Come on, we must finish this quickly. The gap still is not wide enough for you to pass through.”

Yennefer purses her lips, thinking hard and rapidly. “No. Leave this to me, I can finish it by myself. Go with Regis to the river; your illusions might be needed.”

Ameer hovers his hand over the concealed medallion. “Are you sure?”

She hesitates. “…Yes. Just…be careful.”

“I will. I promise.” Ameer quickly mounts his horse, riding after Regis. It doesn’t take long for him to catch up. After all, a horse is faster than a mule. But Regis’s mule has no rider – he’s unmounted and is running towards the river instead.

When Ameer’s horse grounds to a halt, chewing on the bit with its eyes rolled back, he understands why. The animals are terrified. They refuse to go any closer.

Rather than waste time bewitching it, Ameer dismounts again and chases after Regis. Tatanu is flying around him, still cawing frantically.

Ameer hears a shout.

“Help!”

He also hears growls and guttural shrieks.

Now, he can see what’s causing the noise. In the river, a man is desperately trying to swim across the channel. His brown beard is flecked with blood. On his back, Ameer sees two empty sword sheaths. A witcher. Around him, the water is dyed pink.

The man sees Regis and Ameer, and shouts again. “Help me! Please!”

Just behind him, a drowner emerges from the water. Eyes bulging grotesquely, claws extended. Its brethren aren’t far behind. It grabs the witcher by the empty sheaths, and pulls him down into the water.

Regis reaches the river first. Immediately, he throws off his bag to the side and jumps into the river.

Ameer runs after him, but stops at the top of the bank. He’ll be useless in the water – he never learnt to swim, and would drown within minutes if he jumped in. Instead, he throws down his cloak and readies his bow. Already, he can see three more drowners – no, _five –_ descending onto the river. Automatically, Ameer sends out an instruction.

_Leave. Now._

The drowners ignore him.

Frantically, Ameer tries again. _Leave. Now_. He pushes his mind further, tries to reach out –

And is pushed back by a wave of nauseating pain.

Clutching his head, Ameer staggers from the water’s edge. What the fuck? His powers are fine. They worked on the wolf earlier! Why isn’t it working now?

No time to dwell. Ameer fires off three arrows to the nearest drowners, hitting them directly in the head. They drop down, floating on the water.

Three down – but five more have appeared, pushing the ranks up to seven. Fitting another arrow, Ameer glances anxiously into the water where Regis jumped in. The water is beginning to turn red. Has the witcher been…?

No, for the body of a disembowelled drowner floats up. Moments later, Regis bursts to the surface. He’s carrying the witcher, who coughs and gasps for air, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t kick against the river’s current, doesn’t try to swim. His face is deathly pale, his eyes flickering shut. He’s about to pass out. Regis links his arms under the man’s armpits, and starts swimming backwards, back to the river bank.

More and more drowners are gathering. Ameer doesn’t have time to count them all. He’d better deal with this – if he can’t bewitch them, he’ll have to make them leave with illusions. His first instinct is to simply hide Regis and the witcher from their view. Drowners are stupid; it’s easy enough to do. With their prey hidden from sight, Ameer expects the drowners to give up and leave.

They don’t. Despite not knowing where their prey lies, they continue in their onslaught, choosing to flail around wildly in hopes of slicing the witcher by accident. Ameer has no choice but to continue felling them one by one, taking them out in quick succession. Even without knowing where Regis and the witcher are, a few get frighteningly close – mere inches away, claws extended and about to swipe down on the two, before Ameer kills it.

The dread in Ameer’s chest grows exponentially. These drowners are much smarter than ones he’s encountered before. Not only do they have an unwavering determination to kill this witcher, rather than just leaving once he disappeared, they seem to have the understanding that the witcher is still there, even if they can’t see him. For a monster like a drowner, these ones are terrifyingly smart.

And their numbers are great, too. Despite Ameer’s quick aim, he isn’t making much progress. For each drowner he kills, another one appears.

Regis is struggling to carry the witcher backwards. The flow of the river, combined with the witcher’s dead weight and inability to stay above water, is slowing him down. Ameer can’t even help him – if he stops shooting drowners for even a second, one will get too close and kill the witcher. And Regis cannot help fight the monsters and risk letting go of the unconscious witcher.

Gritting his teeth, Ameer takes out two more. “Regis, can you get him out?!”

“I’m trying!” Regis shouts back. “Something has caught his foot!”

Shit! And Ameer can’t help free him! All he can do is continue taking out this endless stream of drowners. Could he distract them, perhaps? He conjures up a fiend on the bank, roaring and swiping its claws close to the drowners. But none of them react or slow down in their onslaught – most of them don’t even seem to notice it’s there.

“Can you bewitch them?” Regis shouts, pulling hard against whatever force has caught the witcher. “Tell them to leave?”

“I tried!” Ameer quickly gives up on the fiend illusion, concentrating his attention on the drowners instead. He takes out another one that gets too close to Regis and the witcher. Its blood sprays all over them. “They are not listening! I think someone else is controlling them!”

Something changes.

Ameer isn’t sure why. Isn’t sure what triggered it.

But half of the drowners suddenly look towards him.

For a few moments, they simply stare at him. And then they start prowling towards Ameer instead. Staring with those bulging, milky eyes.

Frantically, Ameer carries on firing arrows, switching his aim between the drowners attacking the witcher and the drowners coming towards him. He’s getting low on arrows. This is bad.

“Ameer! What the hell is –” A stream of purple flames blasts away the nearest drowners to him. “Get away from the river, Ameer!”

Yennefer. Ameer could collapse in relief. “There is a witcher in the river! Help Regis!”

Immediately, Yennefer begins aiming at the drowners swarming Regis. One after the other, they fall in a fiery blaze of violet. The onslaught doesn’t stop, but she’s able to keep them from reaching Regis, who’s still pulling at the witcher and trying to keep him afloat.

It gives Ameer some relief. He doesn’t have to focus on covering Regis. But his own problems haven’t ceased – half of the drowners are still swarming towards him. Just how many are there in this swamp?!

One more down. Another. And another. Ameer fires his last arrow into the head of a particularly large drowner. He’s out – quickly throwing his bow onto the grass, he takes out the knife Hjalmar gave him. He doesn’t dare using his flames widely with Yennefer so close, afraid he might hit her in the chaos. He just needs to keep the drowners occupied long enough for Regis to free the witcher from whatever’s trapping him in the river.

The drowners are quick, but Ameer is quicker. Nimbly, he dodges their attacks and lashes out with the blade. He aims for the neck, where the skin is thinnest and the blows fatal. The drowners’ claws barely miss him each time as he attacks them so closely. Another one comes up behind him – he stabs it through the eye, then turns and catches the head of another attacking drowner in his hand. With a hot flash of fire, he sets it aflame, jumping back to avoid its flailing swipes.

Behind him, he hears a snarl. He turns to see the wolf pouncing on a drowner that was getting close, ripping its throat out. She looks terrified, but she pounces on another drowner with her teeth bared and body shaking with growls.

It’s exhausting work. Even with the wolf’s help, Ameer is running out of energy. Constantly moving in circles, constantly checking behind him as drowners try to sneak up, Ameer savagely kills the monsters. His left hand aches from holding the knife so tightly. His right hand aches from the small but hot flames that he dares to use without hitting Yennefer. His clothes are covered in drowner blood. But Ameer isn’t entirely unscathed, either. The drowners have managed to catch him on the arm and on the chest terrifyingly close to the medallion. Its eyes are glowing vividly red, but it’s undamaged.

Panting, Ameer viciously slices at another drowner that tries to creep up on him. “I am so sick of this stupid region!” He slits the throat of another one. “I am so sick of these swamps!” When one catches him on the back, he spins and shoots a short burst of green flame into its face. “And I am so sick of these fucking drowners!” If this witcher dies after all the effort, he is going to be _so pissed_.

When Ameer turns to see how Regis and Yennefer are progressing, he is horrified and appalled. Not because, despite the ridiculously large pile of charred drowner bodies, the monsters are still attacking in large numbers. But because they are much further away than Ameer realised.

The drowners have surrounded him and been pushing him steadily downriver. In the chaos of the fight, Ameer didn’t even realise. He has to get back to the others. If they succeed in separating him any further, they might overwhelm him.

Gritting his teeth, he starts fighting through them again, breathing hard. Ahead, he can see that Zoltan has joined the group. Regis has managed to climb back up the bank; he and Zoltan are trying to pull out the half-submerged witcher from the river.

With one great heave, Regis pulls up the witcher as far as he can. Zoltan leans down, axe in hand, and swings down towards the witcher’s foot. In a sudden jolt, the witcher is freed, and Regis pulls him roughly from the river. Zoltan looks at his foot in bewilderment.

“A root?!” He exclaims.

Ameer has no time to realise what that means.

Something grasps his ankle.

The world flips. Ameer falls roughly to the ground. Something pulls on him sharply. Drags him.

And then he’s submerged in water.

The sheer cold knocks the breath out of him.

For a moment, Ameer is stunned. The river tosses him about like a play thing. The grip on his ankle is hard as iron shackles. In the murkiness of the water, he can’t see what’s ensnared him. He can only assume it’s the same as the witcher. He thrashes, kicks, tries his best to right himself. He can’t swim. He doesn’t know _how_. Struggling against the current, he thrashes in the water – and achieves nothing. He can’t swim; can’t breathe.

Desperately, he tries to grab branches of overhanging bushes. They snap in his palm. He tries to grab the edge of the bank. The dirt crumbles in his hands.

Panic overwhelms him. He can’t swim. He never learnt. The water is suffocating him. He can’t breathe. Adrenaline courses through him, but his legs feel heavy as lead. His lungs ache, like they’re about to collapse. _He can’t breathe._

His vision starts going dark. His chest burns in pain.

Is this it?

Colour starts leaking into his vision. And suddenly he’s looking up at a clear sky.

He’s by the shore of a lake. Pine trees decorate the slopes, and a stone castle stands proudly on the mountainside.

Kaer Morhen? No, Ameer doesn’t have time for this! He’s drowning, he can’t breathe –

The panic starts interfering with the memory, making it blurry around the edges. In response, a jolt of electricity goes through him painfully, almost punishingly.

Does Geralt want him to see this?

Ameer focuses. The scene steadies. Now, he can see a child with messy brown hair, who is flailing in the water. An elderly man stands in the shallows, arms under the boy to stop him from sinking.

“Geralt, focus.” The man says, a little tiredly.

“I am focusing!” The young Geralt argues back. “Why won’t you let me swim with the others?”

“Because you’re not good enough yet. You’ll drown.”

“But Vesemir –”

“This is important.” Vesemir cuts in sternly. “Many monsters live in lakes or oceans, and you may even have to fight them underwater. Move your legs in opposite directions – while one goes backwards, one goes forwards. Do the same with your arms – but if you’re sinking, use them to push upwards. Put them straight above your head, then quickly push them down to your sides. And you’re breathing too shallow – always take a deep breath!”

The memory abruptly ends.

He’s back in the river, back in Velen, his lungs almost bursting. Clumsily, Ameer kicks in the synchronised way Vesemir taught Geralt. He uses his arms to push himself forcefully upwards – above his head, then quickly down. Again and again, getting more practised and stronger with each attempt. The root still has him ensnared, but he keeps going, upwards, upwards –

And in sheer desperation he manages to breach the surface.

Gasping, inhaling that sweet frigid air, Ameer fumbles for something to grab onto. Anything. He’s still half submerged, and the river water blurs his vision. Blindly, he reaches out and feels the solid, smooth surface of a rock. That’ll have to do.

The grip continues to be tight on his ankle. He still has the knife clutched in his hands; he’s going to have to hack off the root. But he’s going to need help; he can’t chop through the root and hold onto the rock at the same time. Gritting his teeth, he glances towards the others –

He can’t see them.

The river has carried him far off downstream. His companions are completely out of sight.

Again, the panic rises within him.

Inhaling deeply, he shouts as loud as he can. “Yennefer!”

He didn’t shout loud enough, too breathless to put enough volume into his voice. Desperately, he tries again.

“Yennefer! Regis!”

The root starts dragging him down again.

Adrenaline courses through him. He tries to cling to the rock, the blade of his knife scraping against the surface. But the root keeps on pulling. He’s going to be dragged in again.

He remembers that face. An old face, a wise one, that fills him with a painful love that doesn’t belong to Ameer.

_“Take a deep breath!”_

Ameer gasps for breath – and is plunged back into the icy waters.

This time, he doesn’t let panic consume him. Geralt’s unseen presence steadies him, just as Vesemir steadied him. He forces the panic into anger, into determination.

Gripping the knife tightly, he begins to hack away at the root. His hands are completely numb, making his movements clumsy; if not for his thick boots, he would have accidentally sliced his foot open. At first, the knife barely does anything. It’s probably been dulled from fighting those drowners, and the root seems unnaturally thick. Don’t panic. Keep going. Methodically, trying to ignore the growing pain in his lungs, he saws back and forth on the root. Soon, he’s managed to cut about half way through.

The root reacts. As if he’s severed a nerve, it begins to thrash wildly in the water, knocking him about the river bed.

And in its clumsy rage, it accidentally pushes Ameer towards the surface.

Ameer gasps for breath. He reaches out towards the bank – in a stroke of fortune, his hand grasps a sturdier branch. Frantically, he kicks out. The root is halfway severed. If he could just kick hard enough, break the rest through sheer force…

Again and again, he kicks. But the root’s grip stays strong. The steady determination is beginning to fade now, being replaced with panic once more. Come on! Ameer kicks again. He’s exhausted now. Please!

The root starts to pull again.

“No!” He can’t go under again. He won’t survive being submerged under the water again. Still the root pulls. The branch of the bush is going to give way –

A hand grabs him by the wrist.

Someone is pulling him up and out of the river. Someone with strong, calloused hands. But there’s resistance – the root is stopping Ameer from being able to escape.

“M-My foot!” He shouts, half-spluttering. “A root has it caught!”

Ameer hears the sound of metal being unsheathed. Sees a glint of silver.

His rescuer pulls him as far from the river as possible. The sword is held aloft. And in one fluid, swift movement, the blade slices down on the root.

The pulling stops. There’s still something painful gripping Ameer’s foot, but the root is no longer dragging him down.

And Ameer is pulled roughly up the river bank.

Coughing and spluttering, Ameer collapses onto his side. He can’t feel his hands, his foot throbs in agony, and the cold scatters his thoughts. But the relief upon finding sturdy, solid ground is overwhelming.

He has no time to stop and rest, though. “Get up. We need to leave.” It’s a man’s voice. Ameer looks up. He sees a broad-shouldered, bearded man. A face painted with scars. Ginger hair and blue piercing eyes.

Ameer knows this man. But he’s too cold to process the information, too cold to access his memories. So instead he stares blankly.

“Wh-What?”

The man pulls him to his feet, but Ameer instantly buckles in pain. “M-My foot –”

Without a word, the man puts one arm around Ameer’s back, then another under his feet. Grunting, he lifts Ameer up and begins running.

The noise of the river gets further and further away. And only when the river is entirely out of sight, out of view – even for Ameer – does he finally stop.

“All right. We’ll be safe here.” The man lowers Ameer to the ground. They’re in an abandoned field overgrown with weeds and brambles, shielded from view of the river by hedgerow and a few solitary trees. He’s breathing hard, eyes scanning the distance. “My horse should be around here somewhere…”

Ameer is so cold. He’s so, so cold. There’s a fog in his mind. He can’t think properly, can’t even process what’s being said to him. He knows the man in front of him, but he doesn’t know him at the same time. He’s so cold that it hurts, but he can’t feel half of his body either. And he feels so exhausted and sleepy, yet his body pumps with adrenaline.

“We need to get your layers off.” The man “Let me help you.”

He reaches out towards Ameer.

And once more, Ameer isn’t in Velen.

But this time, he’s not in Kaer Morhen. He’s in Skellige. And it’s so cold.

The floor is hard beneath him. There’s a strong smell of smoke and fish in the air. He’s so cold. The dimeritium shackles around his wrists send a constant, vague wave of nausea through him. His whole body hurts. His hand burns. He can feel blood in his mouth from his split lip. 

And he can’t breathe.

The man has his hands around Ameer’s neck. He’s applying pressure. And Ameer can’t breathe.

“How long can you Fox elves hold your breath for, huh?” He shouts. “How long you reckon, lads?”

Ameer tries to struggle against his grip. He can’t breathe. “P-Please.”

The man laughs. Ameer can’t remember his face. They all merge into one. But he remembers the laugh. He lets go for a second – allows Ameer a cruel second of sweet air, enough to keep him alive – before continuing the pressure again.

“Please… _Please_ …” He can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe_.

“Ameer.”

Ameer jolts back to reality.

He’s back in Velen, but the world seems to have jarringly shifted around him. The man is lying on the ground, pinned underneath him. Ameer doesn’t remember doing that. He realises his arms are shaking. And the reason for that is because he’s trying to stab the man with his knife.

The man has caught him by the wrists. The knife’s point is an inch away from his face.

“Ameer. Do you remember me?” The man’s arms are shaking with effort, but he speaks calmly anyway. “Last night, we met last night, remember? My name is Witold. Do you remember?”

Ameer’s face suddenly feels warm. Oh. He’s crying. Tears are streaming down his face. No helpful lesson from Geralt this time. Just a horrible, horrible memory of his suffering. Even in the daytime, he can’t escape the nightmares.

“Do you remember?” The man says again, more forcefully.

He’s so, so cold. But he forces his mind to focus. Witold. Witold, from last night.

The recognition must show in his face. Witold speaks calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you, all right? I swear.”

The man from last night. Ameer tries to stop crying. “I-I underst-stand.”

“Good. Could you let go of the knife please?”

This is Velen. Not Skellige. Velen.

Ameer lowers the knife. His adrenaline-saturated body tries to resist, confused from his most recent stint with danger and trying to protect himself. But he forces down the knife, and clumsily gets off Witold, allowing him to sit up. He tries to let go of the knife.

But he can’t. Ameer stares down at his hand. He tells his fingers to unclasp the knife, but they don’t move. He can’t feel them.

Ameer closes his eyes. Forces away the last of the tears. He’s shivering violently. “M-My – M-My – My f-fingers are…f-fro-frozen…” His teeth are chattering too much to speak properly. Each blast of wind freezes him even more.

“All right. Let me help.” Witold pries apart Ameer’s numb fingers gently, but his hands are so warm they feel as if they are burning him. The knife slips from his grasp and onto the ground.

“Good. Good.” Witold breathes in relief. “Now, you need to take your layers off.”

Ameer opens his eyes. He can’t stop shivering, but he still manages to look offended. “Wh-What?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying anything.” Witold reassures him. “I promise. But you do need to take off your layers.”

A blast of wind sweeps over them. Ameer gasps from the sheer pain of the cold. “A-Are you m- _mad_?”

“Wet clothes plus cold is a killer.” Witold explains seriously. “It makes you even colder. In this wind, too, you’ll be dead before I can get a fire started.”

“O-Oh.” Ameer didn’t know that. In Ofier, he didn’t _need_ to know that. But in the north, being made a fool of time and again, he feels like a child.

“Now…” Witold hesitates. “I’ll take off your gloves. Then you take off your layers. All right?”

“…F-Fine.”

With difficulty, Witold takes off the gloves. But when Ameer tries to fumble for his clothes, his fingers are still too numb to grasp the material.

Witold watches him nervously. “Let me do it. All right? I’m not trying to do anything untoward. I just want to help.” He’s obviously wary of Ameer trying to stab him again.

Ameer swallows, and nods. He’s so cold, he doesn’t even care anymore.

Watching Ameer carefully as he does so, Witold begins removing Ameer’s layers. He undoes the leather belt, then pulls off Ameer’s tunic very slowly. He takes off one boot, then pauses and unsheathes his own knife, sawing back and forth at something on the other foot.

The root, Ameer realises. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore from numbness; he’d forgotten it was even there. But as he looks down, he sees a coil of root still stubbornly wrapped around his ankle.

At last, the root relinquishes its grip and falls to the ground. When Witold pulls off the boot, Ameer sees a horrible red welt around his ankle. The second he regains feeling in his extremities, that is going to really hurt.

“All right.” Witold breathes out in relief, having managed to remove the layers without any more resistance. Admittedly, Ameer feels relieved too. Without his sodden outer layers, the wind doesn’t hurt so much. “I’ll get a fire started.”

Standing up, he whistles, unintentionally making Ameer wince at the pitch. Soon, a somewhat agitated horse canters to them, shaking her head anxiously.

Witold grabs a pack and a thick, fur cloak from the saddle. First, he places the cloak over Ameer, pulling the hood up to give his wet hair a relief from the wind. The cloak is wonderfully soft, instantly protecting him from the chill around him. _Just as it did last night_ , Ameer thinks with a surge of embarrassment.

Next, Witold quickly gathers sticks of wood from the field and dumps them into a pile. He takes a flint from his bag, and begins hitting it next to the wood. When a spark eventually takes to the timber, he blows on it gently, feeding it until it grows in size.

Oh, warmth. Beautiful, comforting warmth. Ameer gazes into the flames gratefully. Witold sits down next to him. “How are your hands?”

Ameer shows him. They have a waxy quality to them, and he still can’t move them.

Gently, Witold takes them in his own hands. The heat makes Ameer gasp. So warm, it’s painful. Carefully, Witold blows on them, breathing life back into them.

It hurts tremendously at first, but with each breath Ameer regains sensation in them. At last, he can finally move his hands. That comes as a huge relief. He doesn’t feel so helpless anymore.

“You’re injured.” Witold points out. “You need to see a medic.”

“I am fine.” Ameer speaks quietly. He’s still cold, but he’s no longer shivering uncontrollably. And now that he can think properly, he feels overwhelming humiliation.

This is the man from last night. The man he kissed. The man who was _not_ interested.

And Ameer had to be rescued from a river by him. Ameer had to be carried to safety by him. Had to be undressed by him. Ameer attacked him with a knife – _cried_ in front of him.

He stares at the ground, wishing it would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. Of all the people to come across him in the river and rescue him, it just had to be the one man Ameer really, really didn’t want to see again. Of all the fucking people.

“You don’t look fine to me. You almost just drowned, and these rivers aren’t exactly clean. You could get an infection.” Witold continues, standing up. “I’ll take you to Newmoor. You’re –”

He breaks off suddenly, frowning. The bushes are rustling again. Automatically, he unsheathes his sword.

But instead of a monster, the wolf bounds through, tail wagging elatedly.

“Get back!” Witold shouts, standing in front of Ameer defensively, sword raised. In response, the wolf skitters to a halt. Hackles raised, she growls, body low to the ground, ready to pounce.

“No! No, she is friendly!” Ameer shouts frantically. “She helped me! Do not harm her!” Then to the wolf, he sends out a quick command. _Calm down. I am fine._

This time, he faces no painful barrier. The wolf stops growling, though she doesn’t drop her aggressive stance. So there really is nothing wrong with his powers.

Rapidly, Witold looks between the two of them. And when the wolf doesn’t move forwards any further, he slowly sheathes his sword again.

Immediately, the wolf resumes her excited demeanour. She races past Witold and throws herself at Ameer, licking his face excitedly. Ameer grimaces – her breath stinks of drowner guts.

“All right, all right!” Ameer smiles. The wolf was terrified in the forest when she sensed the monsters, but she broke free of that terror to come and help him. That makes Ameer secretly delighted, though he tries to hide it. The wolf slumps across him, panting and tail wagging. She’s heavy, but Ameer doesn’t mind, since she’s also very warm. And now, he doesn’t feel so vulnerable and alone with this man who makes him feel so embarrassed.

Witold watches him with surprise. “That your pet or something?”

“No.” Ameer scratches her behind the ears, overwhelmingly relieved that he can actually do so now that his hands aren’t frozen. “She is wild, not tamed.”

“How come it’s not ripping your face off, then?” Witold asks warily. “You cast a spell on it or something?”

“Something like that.”

Witold looks bemused at his aloof and vague answers – a striking difference to how he spoke to Witold last night – but he doesn’t comment. His horse has retreated in the wolf’s presence, so he goes to fetch her, calming her down with smooth, methodical strokes on her neck.

“What were you doing by that river?” He asks. “If you were looking to cross, the bridge was much further down.”

“I know that.” Ameer says, feeling defensive in spite of himself. It is beyond humiliating to have yet another reason for Witold to think so little of him. “I was much further down myself before I got dragged into the river and carried along. Besides, I was not trying to cross at the time. We were rescuing a witcher.”

Witold frowns. “A witcher?”

“Yes. He had fallen in and was overwhelmed by drowners.”

“Drowners? How many drowners?”

“At least thirty. And their numbers continued growing, no matter how many we killed.”

At this, Witold’s jaw clenches. He kneels down in front of the fire, staring into the flames. He looks troubled. “…It’s getting worse.” His voice is quiet.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been in and out of Velen for a while now. Seeing a group of ten drowners together was normal enough. But thirty?” He shakes his head. “Things are getting worse. Don’t know why, but I don’t think it’s gonna get better anytime soon.” He drags his gaze from the flame and picks up the root. “They weren’t what dragged you in, though, were they? Never known drowners to control roots.”

“No.” Ameer swallows. “The only animal I know to control roots like that is a leshen.”

“A leshen…I’ve not heard of those.”

Hm. Definitely not a witcher, then, or someone with any kind of witcher training like Yennefer’s daughter. The man remains as mysterious as he was last night. “They are creatures made from the plants of the environment around them. They command the plants and animals to do their bidding. Very dangerous.” In Ofier, they look different – made from thorny bark and woven dried grass roots in the steppes, and dead, grey trees struck by lightning in the mountains – but they are equally as violent and lethal. These are creatures that vulpesses are unable to bewitch, and are as difficult to trick with illusions as humans – if not harder, at times, owing to their immense ages. As a result, even vulpesses know not to cross paths with these formidable creatures.

“Then it sounds like you’re lucky to be alive. We both are.” Witold tosses the root into the fire, where it burns and shrivels up satisfyingly. He smiles tentatively, trying to lift the mood. “You’ve got rotten luck, you know. Getting attacked by racists at the bar, then almost drowning in a river. Is your life normally this…exciting?”

At the mention of last night, Ameer feels his face flush once again. Any words that he might’ve said, any excuses or retorts, die in his throat, culled by embarrassment. So he says nothing.

After a moment, Witold stands up, carrying on as if that awkward silence hadn’t happened. “Right. Best get you to Newmoor. You can bring your pet wolf if you want, I suppose, though my horse might not like it much.”

“She is not my pet.” Ameer says testily, offended on the wolf’s behalf. “And I cannot go with you yet.”

“Well, I’m not going to bloody leave you alone in the fields to freeze.” He points out, voice tinged with concern.

“I am not alone. My friends were with me. I cannot leave them.”

In perfect timing, Ameer hears a shout from beyond the field.

“Ameer!” The panicking voice of Yennefer.

His heart leaps. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Ameer shouts loudly.

“Yennefer!”

At his shout, the wolf jumps off his lap and slips into the bushes, and the horse wickers agitatedly. But it does the trick; Ameer hears footsteps hurrying towards them. With uncharacteristic panic, Yennefer stumbles into the field.

She runs forwards and hugs him tightly. He hugs her back just as fiercely. The smell of lilac and gooseberries is comforting. The smell of blood is less comforting – she’s been slashed on the arm by those damn drowners.

“Are you all right?” He asks. “Are you hurt?”

She laughs, partly in disbelief and partly in exasperation. “You’re asking me that?”

They hug again. Words communicated through the embrace. He can feel her fear, her guilt, but most of all her overwhelming relief.

Shortly after, Regis stumbles into the clearing. He’s soaking wet. Upon seeing the two of them, relief overcomes his face.

“You’re safe…” He kneels down and hugs Ameer tightly. “Oh, thank goodness…”

“You are cold!” Ameer gasps. “And wet!”

“I’m sorry.” Regis withdraws. “I’m sorry, this is my fault.”

Ameer shakes his head. “Do not say what is not true.”

Witold looks at them both. At Regis, he seems concerned. But when he looks at Yennefer, he looks…Ameer isn’t sure what. Shocked? Is there recognition there? Either way, he looks at her strangely.

“Who are you?” He asks, gripping the reins of his horse tighter in his hands. The mare has become extremely agitated.

Shit. It’s because of Regis. Quickly, Ameer stares hard at the horse.

_Be quiet. Calm yourself._

At once, the horse becomes calm. Good. Who knows how this man would react to Regis being a vampire?

Yennefer looks Witold up and down. “I could ask you the same.” She says suspiciously in response.

“This is…Witold.” Ameer explains, glancing away from their gaze. “He saved me from the river. Without him, I would be dead.”

The name must instantly click in both Regis and Yennefer’s minds, for Ameer sees the flicker of recognition in their eyes. They’ve connected the dots – this man is the same man from last night. Mercifully, neither of them comment on this fact, saving Ameer from further humiliation. “You have our eternal gratitude.” Regis says genuinely. “Thank you.”

“What do we owe you?” Yennefer asks.

“Nothing.” Witold says casually. “Just glad I was able to help.”

Ameer turns urgently to Regis. “The witcher – is he alive?”

“Yes. Barely, but yes.” Regis tells him.

Ameer sighs in relief. After all this, if the witcher had died, he would’ve been excruciatingly angry.

“But he’s received heavy wounds. I’m going to need a sterile environment and more resources than I have at hand to operate.” Regis continues.

“There’s a healer in a village not far from here.” Witold stands up. “I can bring you there. And you,” he points at Regis, “you need to take off those clothes or you’ll freeze to death.”

Regis isn’t even shivering. But he has to pretend otherwise, for the sake of keeping his immortal tendencies hidden. “Yes, of course.” He says, disguising the frustration in his voice well. “I’ll warm up here, then I’ll attend to the witcher and catch up with you.” Ameer wonders how long he’ll pretend to warm up before running back to his new patient. Probably until the second that Witold leaves. When Tatanu lands by Regis, he shakes his head at the raven and – when Witold isn’t watching – converses surreptitiously to him. Tatanu caws, shakes his feathers, then alights and settles on Yennefer’s shoulder instead. If something happens, he can act as a messenger to fetch Regis.

“We’ll go on ahead. Myself and Ameer.” Yennefer turns to Witold. “Can you lead us there?”

“Of course.”

Ameer frowns. “Should I not stay and help with the witcher –”

“Absolutely not.” Yennefer interrupts him. “You’re injured, you’re half frozen, you need treatment. We’re going to see this healer.”

Ameer doesn’t bother trying to protest further. Yennefer has that uncompromising look in her eyes – arguing will be pointless.

“Fine.” He tries to stand up, but immediately buckles again. His ankle hurts too much.

“Here. Let me help you onto my mare.” Witold suggests.

“No, no, I am fine –” Ameer’s protests are in vain. Witold helps him onto the horse in a side-saddle position, allowing the cloak to remain securely wrapped around him. Then he climbs up himself, sitting behind Ameer and taking a hold of the reins. Oh, he feels _so warm_. Ameer hates to admit it, but he finds himself instinctively leaning against Witold anyway. Between his natural heat, the softness of the fur cloak, and Witold’s warm breath against him, Ameer is finally banishing the cold.

“Do you have your own horse?” Witold asks Yennefer. “Sorry, but there isn’t enough room for all three of us.”

“I do. It’s a little further back – it refused to go anywhere near the river.”

“Not surprised. Mine was the same.” Witold pats his mare’s neck, pressing closer to Ameer to do so. Ameer cringes and tries not to think of last night. What did he do to deserve this cruel irony? “They’re smart animals. They can sense when monsters are close. But she’s calm now – the monsters at the river must be gone.”

He’s wrong.

As Witold begins leading them to the aforementioned village, they come into view of the river. And despite Ameer’s bewitchment, the horse begins to panic again.

When Ameer looks over, he understands why.

On the opposite bank, rows upon rows of drowners stand still. Hissing and growling, but otherwise still. Twenty, thirty, maybe even forty. With them, water hags sway back and forth, bones dangling around their necks.

Something much bigger stands in the middle of this procession.

A body made from wood. Like bark stripped from a tree, moss and lichen growing like arteries along the grain. Claws long and curved, deadly sharp. Skulls hang around its waist. Rope tied around its torso hold two branches in place behind its back, holding human skulls and bones along the forks of the branches. A mockery of the Silver and Steel swords.

A deer skull watches them. The antlers of a stag jut out of its head, worn and old, ivy growing along the bones. Three wolves stand by its mossy feet, growling and salivating. Five ravens perch on the antler branches, eerily silent.

A leshen.

None of them, not a single participant of this monstrous band, try to attack. None cross the river. None walk over the border from Crookback Bog to Greyrocks. All stand still.

They simply stare. Unwaveringly.

Ameer swallows. “That is what dragged me into the river. And what trapped the witcher, too.”

Behind him, the wolf – the friendly wolf who has been following them at a cautious distance – begins to whine. The wolves standing by the leshen ignore her. Tatanu likewise tries to caw to the ravens sitting on the leshen’s antlers. He gets no response.

“What is a leshen doing all the way out here?” Yennefer whispers. “I thought they lived in forests.”

As if to answer, the leshen begins to move.

It raises its wooden, bony hand into the air and begins to trace a pattern.

A three-way spiral. The Crone’s symbol.

Then it points at them.

Witold sharply turns his horse away. “Come on. No point tempting fate any further.”

None of them argue. But Ameer looks back one last time. The leshen, the drowners, and the water hags still stand on the river bank.

Through these monsters, Ameer can sense her. 

Watching them. Mocking them. Showing off her power.

Ameer turns away. And he doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allaena just means 'fuck' haha


	6. For the Good of Velen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> I'm very sorry for the big delay in uploading this chapter! I became very busy unexpectedly these past weeks so finding time to write was pretty difficult! I had to very quickly sort out some important info for applying to my new masters course (I got accepted though, yay!) which took up a lot of time, then I had to stop writing on my laptop because I was starting to get eye strain and had to switch temporarily to using notebooks - I've been given prescription reading glasses now, which is a relief because my studies are very reading/learning intensive! Then I was visiting family for a while, so I've been very busy! I know I was trying to stick with a weekly upload schedule, but unfortunately I think I'll have to slow that down so I don't end up knackering my eyes. I'll try not to leave it as long as this though!  
> Also, I'd like to thank you very much for your patience with the Ameer pov chapters! Honestly when I uploaded those chapters I was really nervous since he's an OC, so thank you very much for your kind words! This chapter is a Yennefer pov, and next will be Regis, and so on and so forth. Generally, Ameer pov chapters will be few and far between - the story will consist largely of Yennefer and Regis, with an occasional chapter dedicated to Geralt and other witcher canon characters (similar to how I gave Cerys and Zoltan a chapter in part 1).  
> Thank you very much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_“Folk say they were four at first. The Mother, She-Who-Knows, the Lady of the Wood, came here from a faraway land and, since she suffered terribly from loneliness, she made three daughters out of dirt and water._

_A long, long time ago the Mother was sole ruler of all of Velen. Her daughters brought her the people's requests and served as her voice. Each spring, sacrifices of grain, animals, and men were made to the Lady of the Wood on her special night. Yet as the years passed, the Lady of the Wood slipped deeper and deeper into madness. Her madness eventually spread over the land - men took to abandoning their homes and setting out into the bog, where they became food for beasts. Before long, Velen was drowning in blood._

_The daughters saw their land nearing destruction and took it upon themselves to save it. When spring came once more, and with it the night sacrifices, they killed their mother and buried her in the bog. Her blood watered the oak atop Ard Cerbin, and from then on the tree grew wholesome and hearty fruit for the people. As for the Lady's immortal soul, it refused to leave its beloved land, and so the sisters imprisoned it. To this day it lies trapped beneath the Whispering Hillock, where it thrashes about in powerless rage.” – She-Who-Knows_

The journey to Newmoor is mercifully short and uninterrupted.

Yennefer rides her black mare alongside Witold and Ameer, mentally running through destructive spells in her mind. Her gaze switches back and forth between the forest on their left, and the distant river on their right. Each rustle of undergrowth makes her jump. It’s a wonder she hasn’t set the forest alight in her hypervigilance. It doesn’t help they’re being followed by a wolf, though Ameer insists that it’s friendly. Every time she sees it, she jumps, thinking back to the scene by the river.

At any moment, she expects the leshen to attack again, or for more drowners to come chasing after them. That encounter at the river was too close. To think, she had gotten so worked up about that bar fight last night, yet didn’t notice Ameer being almost drowned right in front of her. She was careless, Regis was careless, and they almost suffered greatly for it. She cannot allow it to happen again.

At long last, Newmoor comes into view. Yennefer kicks her horse, outpacing Witold and racing ahead. The village is large for one found in Velen, and is busier too. As she approaches, workers carrying buckets of fish from the river stop in their tracks.

Pulling on the reins to stop her horse, Yennefer calls out to the crowd. “I need the healer of this village!”

One of the workers puts down his fish basket and hurries to a nearby hut. He knocks urgently on the door. “Jemima! Jemima, I think you’re needed!”

Moments later, the door opens. An elderly woman wearing a green woollen shawl and blue linen skirt steps out. Her grey hair is tucked back into a linen coif and she wears a long necklace of red beads around her neck.

“What’s happened?” She asks, rolling up her sleeves. “Another monster attack?”

Yennefer hears hoofbeats behind her; Witold pulls up his horse next to her. He dismounts, then helps Ameer get off the saddle, who is still bundled up in that fur cloak.

“This one here needs stitching up. We’ve also got an injured witcher heading this way – reckon he’ll need surgery.” Witold explains. From his informal tone, Yennefer assumes he knows the woman.

“And this one is injured too.” Jemima points to Yennefer. “By Melitele – the second I send the medic girl to get supplies, three patients come in all at once! I’d better find her; she has far more surgical experience than I do. In the meantime,” she addresses Witold, “take these two into my hut. I’ll go find Miss Shani.”

“Understood.” Witold helps Ameer towards the hut. Before Yennefer can follow them in, Jemima grabs her arm.

“You. Sorceress, I’m assumin’. The witcher – how was he injured?”

“We’re not entirely sure. We found him in the river. Drowners were definitely involved.” Yennefer lowers her voice. “A leshen might have also been responsible.”

Jemima’s face pales. She nods curtly, then hurries off towards the port, shouting orders to the villagers as she goes.

The hut is large and, most importantly, warm. A fire blazes in a hearth, drying out various medicinal herbs that hang from the ceiling. More are on a long table, along with some medical equipment. Three beds – all currently empty – are equidistant apart from each other in the centre of the room. Witold helps Ameer down on one of them, then gestures for Yennefer to lie down on the other.

“I’ll just sit.” Her wound is superficial – though it bloody hurts, far more than she thought it would. The drowner slash was shallow enough, though, so she’s not going to die of blood loss. She can ignore the pain.

Witold searches Jemima’s table until he finds alcohest, a needle and fine gossamer string. He’s obviously been here before, she thinks. Then he sits down opposite Ameer.

“I’ll start with you. Let me see the injuries.”

Ameer shakes his head hastily. “No need. I can just use magic to heal them –”

“No you won’t.” Yennefer interrupts. “Healing magic is a taxing skill, even for someone as capable as you, and you almost just drowned after fighting swathes of monsters. You need to do nothing but rest.”

He sighs, but does not argue back. “…All right.” Very reluctantly, Ameer shrugs off the cloak and pulls off his under-top. Yennefer is relieved to see he’s not shivering anymore – but is alarmed to see the slashes on his shoulder and on his chest, terrifyingly close to Geralt’s medallion.

“Here, here,” Ameer points to them, “and one on my back.”

Witold doesn’t answer. He’s staring hard at Ameer’s chest, looking completely bewildered.

Ameer frowns, and covers himself. “What?”

“Oh! No, that’s not what I…” Witold trails off, distracted. He points at the medallion urgently. “Where did you find that?”

Strange. Yennefer watches Witold closely. He looks as if he recognises it.

Ameer frowns, noticing the recognition on Witold’s face himself. “A friend gave it to me.”

“A friend? Who?” Witold doesn’t draw his gaze away from the wolf eyes. Right now, they’ve finally returned to a yellow colour. Neutral. In Witold’s presence, they’re shining more than usual. What? Is this someone Geralt knows? Or is he just happy to be away from the river? Yennefer wishes she could ask.

“His name was Filip.” Ameer lies naturally. “A witcher. He died, and I kept his medallion.”

“Oh.” Witold glances away. He looks relieved. “I’m sorry. I thought it belonged to someone else.”

Carefully, Witold unscrews the lid of the bottle and pours the alcohest over the chest wound. Ameer’s eye twitching is the only sign of his pain. And when Witold slowly begins stitching up the wound, Ameer sighs impatiently.

“You are doing it wrong.” He grabs the needle from Witold’s fingers and begins stitching it up himself. “The spacing needs to be smaller, or you will leave half the wound gaping open!”

Witold smiles. “Sorry. I’m no doctor. Are you?”

Ameer stiffens. “…Yes. I was.” Abruptly, he takes the bottle and pours it over the shoulder wound. “Treat Yennefer while I finish this. When you are done, I will need you to do my back.” He begins stitching his shoulder up too, holding the string taut with his teeth. 

Despite Ameer’s impatient demands, Witold agrees amicably. “Well, you’re the doctor, so I’ll follow your orders.” He sits opposite Yennefer. “Right. Where’s the wound?”

“On my arm. Really, it’s very shallow. See to Ameer’s wounds first.” Yennefer insists.

However, Witold shakes his head. “No. Even shallow wounds need treating.”

“It can wait –”

“You been to Velen recently, lady Yennefer?” He asks somewhat curtly.

Yennefer bridles at his tone. “You must know the answer is ‘no’, or else you wouldn’t be asking. Enough with the rhetorical questions please – if you want to make a point, just say it.”

Witold nods. “That’s fair. I apologise. The monsters here are…different than the rest of the north. I’ve been scratched up by drowners in Redania, and the wounds healed perfectly without much need for interference. I’ve had shallower wounds from the drowners in Velen, and each one got infected very, very quickly. There’s something not right about them.”

“…Fine.” Yennefer slips down her sleeve to reveal the wound on her upper arm. When she sees it, she realises he’s not lying.

It’s been barely twenty minutes since she was struck by the drowner, but already the wound is heavily inflamed. No sign of rot, but the skin is obviously infected. No wonder it hurts so much.

Witold peers at it, taking another bottle of alcohest. “No rot, and it looks confined to the skin – but the infection’s ripe for entering the blood stream, and then we’re in real trouble.”

He pours the alcohest over it. Yennefer digs her nails into the bed, inhaling sharply from the stinging pain. When he begins to apply stitches – taking Ameer’s advice, but still far clumsier – she grits her teeth to try and ignore the pain.

“I’m sorry. I’m not very neat. Or gentle.” Witold apologises as he stitches. “I’m sure a sorceress like you could do a much better job at healing this.”

“Actually, healing is one of my weaker skills.” Yennefer explains. “In all honesty, it’s a difficult skill for all mages who don’t specialise in healing like Ameer does. And, like I said, it’s incredibly taxing for even the most experienced healers. I’m sure I’d do a terrible job if I attempted any healing now – I’ve tired myself from fighting that endless mob of drowners.” Healing is a difficult skill, one that requires intense concentration, skill and physical energy. Overexerting oneself can have disastrous consequences. Yennefer should know, considering how her attempt to revive Geralt at the Rivian pogrom went.

Despite her words, Witold is right about one thing – he’s neither neat nor gentle. It’s difficult for Yennefer not to wince, between the needle pricking and the hot pain from the wound. 

“You called me lady Yennefer.” She speaks to keep her mind off her throbbing arm. “I never told you my name.”

“He called you Yennefer earlier on. And I recognise you.” Witold replies evenly. “Black and white, violet eyes – I’ve heard ballads about you.”

“I see.” Yennefer observes him carefully. He reacted very strangely to seeing her back in the fields. And now, with that medallion…

Automatically, Yennefer tries to read his mind – and is engulfed with pain.

The feelings of regret, guilt, bitterness, grief, anger and loneliness are overwhelming. Startling and powerful. There’s so much, too much, affronting her mind all at once.

She screws her eyes shut and clutches her head, almost ripping out her stitches in the process.

“Yennefer! Are you all right?” Ameer calls over, worried.

“I’m fine.” She waits for the pain to ease. “Sorry. Magic migraine.”

When she opens her eyes, she sees a trace of confusion on Ameer’s face. But he doesn’t question or contradict her – he knows her well enough to understand she’s lying for a reason. “You have overexerted yourself, it seems. You need to rest.”

“Yes. You’re right.” That’s the first time she’s been unable to read someone’s mind in such a way. She’ll have to tell Ameer about it later.

Witold himself doesn’t notice the lie; just diligently carries on stitching, oblivious to the pain he caused her. How can he appear so calm and at ease when he’s carrying around that sort of emotional turmoil?

“…Who are you?” She asks.

He frowns. “I’m Witold. You’ve already forgotten?”

“No, no, I mean…what were you doing by that river?”

“I’d taken a job from this lady living in Crookback Bog." He explains. "Dolores Reardon. She has a big manor in the woods. She wanted some help with various odd jobs and supplies, so I was heading down there to get started. But when I tried to cross the river, my horse outright refused. And I listen to my horse when she gets nervous – it’s part of why I’ve survived here so long.”

Horses do make good monster alarms, Yennefer thinks. Geralt made a habit of paying attention to Roach’s behaviour when he was in a particularly suspicious area. The mare has alerted him to danger plenty of times.

“I had no idea that it was a leshen spooking my horse, though. Never seen one of those before.” Finishing with Yennefer’s stitches, he walks back to Ameer and sits down behind him, getting to work stitching up the back wound. “So, what were you doing by that river?”

Yennefer has no chance to answer, for the door bursts open.

The witcher is being carried in on a cart. He looks terrible – his face has gone a horrible, lifeless white, and he moans softly in pain. His face is not one Yennefer recognises; not one of Geralt’s wolf brothers, then. She’s grateful for that. Yennefer may not have gotten on particularly well with either Eskel or Lambert, but she’s still relieved that neither of them have come to harm at the hand of that leshen. The same cannot be said for this witcher. His chest has been bandaged heavily, but his clothes are still wet with blood. As he moves past, Ameer holds his hand over his nose. Yennefer doesn’t need to have an enhanced sense of smell to understand why; the wound stinks of rot.

Wheeling the cart are two people. One is Regis. Still slightly wet from his dip in the river, he holds his hand over the wound, applying pressure to try and staunch the bleeding.

The other is a young woman, whom Yennefer doesn’t recognise. Her red hair and freckled face are youthful, but grim with experience. She shrugs off a short green mantle cloak edged with fur and golden embroidery, slipping on long-sleeved overalls over her clothes and pulling on some gloves in a practiced manner. This must be the medic Jemima mentioned. She hurries ahead, opening a side door to a far emptier, more sterile room. “In here. I’ll get a fire going to sterilise some equipment.”

Regis reaches into his pocket, then takes out a jar of something beige in colour. The contents look as if they’re moving – with a jolt of disgust, she realises it’s a jar of maggots. A rather repulsive but effective method of removing dead flesh.

“We should cauterise the wound first.” Regis is saying. “Then we use the maggots to clean up the dead flesh.”

“We might have to excise the dead flesh manually.” The woman explains. “The maggots don’t take very well to the rot in this region.”

“They don’t?” Regis sounds surprised.

“Not really. I was surprised too at first, but this is Velen. Things like that tend to happen.”

Together, the two quickly push the cart into the sterile room, closing the door tightly behind them. Yennefer can hear them talking quietly and professionally. Ameer listens to them somewhat jealously. No doubt he wishes he could be with the doctors right now, instead of being stuck as a patient.

Jemima closes the outside door, then grabs a pestle and mortar. She plucks a few leaves off various plants, and begins grinding them roughly.

“A leshen.” She mutters angrily under her breath, adding a splash of water to her concoction. “A bloody leshen. Of all the monsters to chase after!”

“Have you had problems with this leshen before?” Yennefer asks.

“Not us, no. Drowners, muchnixers, an occasional rotfiend or nekker is the most we deal with. But the second you cross over the border into Crookback Bog, it’s anyone’s guess what you’re going to end up fighting.”

She carries the poultice over to Ameer. “Open wound on your foot, and it looks sprained – you’re going to be on crutches for at least a week.”

More like three days, knowing the speed of Ameer’s recovery. Neither of them says this, though.

Jemima rubs the poultice on the wound, then secures it with a bandage. “How’d you get this, then? You go off fighting the leshen too?”

“No. I did not even realise it was there until it dragged me into the river.” Ameer explains.

“You’re lucky to be alive, you know.” Jemima tells him seriously. She glances at the door where the surgery is taking place. “So is that witcher – if he survives the treatment.”

“You think he won’t?” Yennefer asks.

“Honestly, it’s hard to tell. He’s a witcher, so he should be tough.” Jemima considers. “But with wounds like that, you never know.”

“Jemima, we’re about to start cauterising.” The medic calls from the surgical room.

Jemima sighs, and quickly returns to the table, mixing together a new concoction. “I’d best make some pain killers. Witold, dear, go get my patients some food. They look exhausted.” With that, she hurries into the surgery room.

“Really, we couldn’t –” Yennefer begins, but Witold interrupts.

“You said you were overexerted, and your friend Ameer was half drowned and half frozen when I pulled him out the river. You could both do with some hot food.” Witold leaves the hut. As soon as he’s gone, Yennefer sits on Ameer’s bed and lowers her voice.

“At the river.” She whispers. “Why didn’t you bewitch the drowners? Why bother with your arrows?”

“I tried.” His face is wrought with worry. “They would not listen.”

“They wouldn’t listen?” Yennefer’s eyes widen. “Are your powers not working?”

“No, my powers are fine.” Ameer holds out his arm, and suddenly a snake appears. It slithers up and around his arm, flickering its tongue curiously. In an instant, it vanishes. A row of brightly coloured song birds take its place, twittering and singing harmoniously. They are then replaced with climbing vines that wrap themselves around Ameer’s arm. Flowers bloom along them, huge indigo blossoms with a dizzying scent.

“You see?” The flowers vanish. “My powers are working just fine.”

Yennefer swallows. “Then why didn’t the drowners listen?” Deep down, she already knows the answer.

With anxious eyes, Ameer lowers his voice. “They were under someone else’s thrall. Someone far more powerful than me.”

They both know, without having to say it. They both know. But Yennefer speaks anyway.

“It was her. Wasn’t it?”

Ameer nods. “Yes. I believe it was.”

Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. “And that leshen…don’t tell me it was under her thrall, too?”

“Maybe not under her thrall, but it is definitely working for her.” Ameer confirms, much to Yennefer’s dismay. “The symbol it traced in the air – it was her symbol.”

“I have never, ever heard of a leshen working for someone else. They are normally too territorial for that. This Crone is even more powerful than I first realised.” Ameer says gravely.

“And Tye has gone off searching for her.” Yennefer closes her eyes. “If the Crone kills him – which she could very easily do – then the cure for the poison dies with him. If Tye dies, Geralt dies too.”

“We will find him.” Ameer takes her hand. “We will not rest until we find him. Even if we have to rescue him directly from the Crone’s clutches.”

Yennefer tries to smile. “Yes. I’m sure we will.”

“Yes. We will.” Ameer quickly changes the topic. “Are you feeling better? What caused you to be in pain?”

“I tried to read Witold’s mind.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never felt anything like it. There were so many thoughts, and a lot of pain – it was too overwhelming for me.”

“I was thinking the same thing. There is something strange about him.” Ameer agrees, a little too eagerly.

“Yes, there is. Though he did save you, so I suppose we can’t judge his character too poorly.” Yennefer points out.

“Yes…Yes he did.” Ameer says flatly. “…I almost stabbed him, you know. I got confused and almost stabbed him. But he still looked after me.”

She feels a mischievous flare spark through her, one she normally only feels in Ameer’s company. “Goodness, he’s brave _and_ kind? And here I thought you had terrible taste.”

“No.” Ameer points his finger at her. “No, no, no. I do not – I have _no_ interest in him.”

Yennefer smiles. “I knew it. You do remember, don’t you?”

“I did not say that. I have no interest in him, I do not like him, and I will be happy to see the back of him.” Ameer says firmly. “Besides, you said so yourself. He is strange. He caused you pain! I do not want to trust someone like that.”

There is something strange about him. Yes, he saved Ameer, and she is extremely grateful for that. But Yennefer has also never had a reaction from mind-reading like that before. And he reacted so bizarrely to seeing both Yennefer and Geralt’s medallion…

The door opens, interrupting their conversation. Witold has returned carrying two steaming bowls and spoons.

“Here.” He passes one to Yennefer, and the other to Ameer. “Leek and chicken soup. This will warm you right up.”

“…Thank you.” Ameer mutters, eyeing him suspiciously. A tense silence falls momentarily. Just who is this man?

“So. Witold.” Yennefer holds the steaming bowl in her hands. “You’ve been to Crookback Bog many times, then?”

“Many times. I know the area well.”

“I’m surprised. You’re not a witcher or a mage, but you managed to survive trips unscathed that our witcher friend was almost killed by.”

“I’m good at fighting.” He says simply.

She glances at his sword. “Is that silver?”

He unsheathes it and passes it to her. A curved sabre, long and elegant. “My old sword was identical to this, but made from steel instead. So when I got a new one made in silver, I had it cast in the same shape and style, so I didn’t have to relearn my sword handling skills.”

Ameer stares at the sword. “…That is Ofieri. How did you get your hands on an Ofieri sword?”

“I didn’t. It was a family heirloom.”

“Who are your family?” Yennefer asks.

“Don’t have one. Not anymore.”

Hm. He’s not even being subtle about dodging the question. “How long have you been in Velen, then?”

“In and out for the past three years.”

“Where do you live?”

“Don’t live anywhere. I sleep wherever I travel.” He smiles to himself, seemingly not perturbed by her relentless questions. “Bit like a witcher, if you think about it.” Funny, he seems happy about that. The lifestyle of a witcher is not one many would want to have.

“Yes. I’m impressed you’ve survived this long.”

Witold takes out a water pouch from his pack and drinks. “Bit of luck, bit of skill. Well, a lot of luck, I suppose.” He glances at the surgical room. “If this place can kill even a witcher easily, then I’ve had luck on my side a lot more than I realised.”

That’s very true. A simple man with no magical abilities or mutations, wandering through the very depths of Crookback Bog, should’ve been killed many times over.

“You still looking for that Tye man, then?” Witold asks. “The one who caused trouble in Oxenfurt with a crystal golem or something?”

“Yes, we are.” Ameer answers. So that’s what he told Witold last night, then. Good – Yennefer would rather keep the true reason for finding Tye a secret, especially to this strange man.

“Huh. Must’ve been some incident, then.” Witold muses. “If they’ve got two mages chasing after him. ‘Specially since one of them’s the famous Yennefer of Vengerberg. Who else have you got with you?”

“Regis, and two others. One is just a merchant we’re escorting, though.” Yennefer finds herself wishing Zoltan and Dulla were here right now. Both she and Ameer are injured and alone with this strange man. Yes, true, he saved Ameer at the river and was kind to him. But that doesn’t change the fact that something feels…a little off about him.

A pained scream interrupts her thoughts. The door to the surgery room opens, and Jemima pokes her head out.

“Witold – poppy seeds, in the black drawstring bag.” She orders.

Without complaint or question, Witold grabs the wares. “Give me a moment.” He says apologetically to Yennefer and Ameer, before following Jemima into the room.

“What on earth is going on in there?” Yennefer asks over the sound of pained cries.

“If maggots are not working, they will have to manually excise the flesh and cauterise it.” Ameer explains. “Not a nice procedure to be awake for. Perhaps I should offer some healing magic –”

“Don’t even think about it.” Yennefer says sternly. “I don’t want you so much as healing a paper cut right now.”

“All right…” Ameer sighs. “I will rest.”

The outside door bursts open. Zoltan charges inside, axe raised. “What is it?! Who’s screaming?!” He shouts, looking frantically around the hut. “Who’s hurt?!”

“It’s fine, calm down. The witcher is in surgery.” Yennefer quickly explains. “But it’s a painful procedure.”

At the realisation that a monster hasn’t appeared in the hut and started slaughtering people, Zoltan lowers his axe with a sigh of relief. Thankfully, the screams are quietening into groans.

“Thank the gods…” He turns and beckons someone behind him. “It’s all right, Dulla. Everything’s fine.”

Dulla walks tentatively behind him, eyeing the inside of the hut nervously. When his gaze falls on Ameer, he hurries inside, his expression one of immense relief.

“'Awh 'ant baman walhamd lilh. 'Iinaa kunt qalaqaan jadana. Hal tadhit?” Dulla takes his hands warmly.

“Khadash qalilanaan , lakunani sa'akun bikhayr.” Ameer says reassuringly.

“You gave us all a scare.” Zoltan pats him on the shoulder. “We looked away for one second, and suddenly you’d vanished. Couldn’t believe it when Regis said a leshen had bloody dragged you under.”

“I am sorry for worrying you.”

“Don’t say that. We’re just glad that you’re all right.”

“What about you?” Ameer looks over Zoltan. “Oh dear – you have cut your arm.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” Zoltan says dismissively.

“You should let Ameer treat it. The wounds here get infected quickly.” Yennefer tells him. Besides, Ameer is obviously eager to use his own medicinal skills.

Zoltan relents, and rolls up his sleeve. As Ameer disinfects the wound and quickly applies stitches, Dulla watches on in interest.

“Are you a doctor?” He asks.

“Not exactly.” Ameer lies. “We elves are very long lived; that gives us lots of time to learn important skills such as these.” So, he’s still being cautious in front of Dulla about his Ofieri past. He quickly moves on the conversation. “Sadly, those skills do not include swimming – after that river, I think I want to change this fact.”

“Ah, Regis said you were pulled out of the river by some man. Where is he? I’d like to meet him.” Dulla asks.

“He’s with the witcher right now.” Yennefer explains. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Indeed, he isn’t long – the door opens, and Witold returns with his hands bloodied, which he wipes on a cloth.

At his appearance, Zoltan only smiles in surprise. “Oh, Witold from last night! That’s a funny coincidence. Nice to see you again.”

However, Yennefer was not expecting Dulla’s reaction. When he sees this strange, scarred man with his somewhat patchwork outfit, his face breaks out into a grin. “Witold?”

Witold’s face lights up. “Dulla!”

Dulla embraces him warmly. “It’s been too long, my friend! I’m glad to see you again!”

“Likewise. It’s been far too long.” Witold smiles. “What on earth are you doing here? In a place like this?”

“I am meant to be journeying to Toussaint. These kind people have agreed to escort me to the harbour – though we got sidetracked with that witcher in the river.”

Ameer looks between the two of them with shock and a little horror. “You two know each other?”

“But of course! This is the man who helped Hadji and I move to Novigrad a few years ago. If he hadn’t helped us out back then, I don’t know what we would have done. I was wondering if we would run into you!”

“I didn’t realise you were friends with Dulla.” Witold smiles at Ameer. “What a small world!”

Ameer smiles thinly. “…Yes. Small world.”

So this is the man who helped Dulla, then. Honestly, Yennefer doesn’t know what to think of Witold anymore. A very strange man, yet he helped out what could’ve been a very lucrative and easy target. That certainly earns him some points in his favour.

“How’s the witcher?” She asks.

“He’s doing all right – doesn’t look like he’s on death’s door anymore – but he’s still undergoing treatment. Hopefully it’ll be done soon.”

It takes a while for the surgery to finish, though.

Yennefer, Ameer, Witold, Dulla, and Zoltan wait anxiously in the herbalist’s hut. None of them know this witcher personally, but after all the chaos caused from rescuing him – after Ameer almost drowned in their attempts to fish him out – they’re impatient to know if their efforts and near-death experiences were for nothing. Zoltan repetitively sharpens his axe, as if expecting the leshen to come bursting through the door at any second. Though he was largely unscathed by the incident, he is no doubt shaken; Zoltan has seen many horrors in war, but that must have been his first time seeing such a lethal monster. Meanwhile, Dulla sits next to Ameer, chatting in Ofieri and scrubbing Ameer’s blood-stained clothes in a basin of water. He kindly offered Ameer some of his own clothes to wear in the meantime. Despite them obviously being Ofieri in origin, Ameer still looks quite odd wearing Dulla’s blue buttoned up jerkin with long undersleeves and swirling embroidery by the opening; not only is this not a fashion style that Ameer frequently wore in the past, but it’s one he tended to avoid. In Nilfgaard, she saw such an outfit in a merchant’s shop and showed it to him. He had been happy to investigate the merchant’s other Ofieri wares, but explained that him wearing such an outfit would be similar to Yennefer deciding to wear pink. Not that the outfit is bad, just very much not his style.

However, Ameer has barely seemed to notice this himself. There’s no melancholy on his face; just concerned thoughtfulness. He’s helping Dulla wash the clothes, nodding along as Dulla chats with him, but he’s clearly distracted. Every now and then, he pauses to trace the edge of the wolf medallion with his fingers, thinking deeply about the most recent encounter with the Crone’s minions.

As for Yennefer, she reads through Tye’s letters again and again, searching desperately for a clue. As always, she decodes no hidden message or clue. She sits in the corner of the room, so as not to startle Ameer with the smell of the flowers.

_To my Sweetheart,_

_Oh, my poor darling! What a shame! I know you spent so much time on that particular project, how very frustrating! I wish I could go and give your supervisor a piece of my mind and a sharp elbow in the stomach!_

_And your poor clothes, too, all soaked through – I suppose that’s the risk in your research! Coincidentally, I finished your new doublet, though I have a feeling it will be far too delicate to be wearing while at work! Never fear; I’ll have some plainer clothes sent over for you, as I know that research has limited income, even with your promotion. Please focus on keeping yourself well fed and housed!_

_In answer to your question, I’m about half way finished on the bodice of the gown. The floral embroidery has caused me to shed more blood than a thousand paper cuts combined! The poppies and forget-me-nots are faring well, but the honeysuckles in particular are causing me much grief! My thimble is wearing down! Father says perhaps I have been overambitious, but there is no such thing as overambitious when applying for a position at Madam Emilie’s! If I wish to even stand a chance, this gown must be the greatest I have ever created! If I bleed for my gown, then so be it – though my fingers are often so raw I struggle to turn the pages of my book at night (it’s A Night Among the Stars, in case you’re wondering!) Should I even get an interview, though, I believe it shall be worth it. Besides, the skirt shall be considerably easier: some more pearl work, some more lace that I will have to purchase, but far less embroidery._

_I am so looking forwards to when this gown is finished, and I can focus on other projects. And more reading! There is a great stack of books I am planning to work my way through. Don’t forget to bring back those books you found in your old dormitory room – I am very curious to read the literature of your homeland!_

_Yours,_

_Pivoine_

Just who is Pivoine? It seems obvious that she and Tye are in some sort of relationship. That mere fact surprises Yennefer immensely. Each description of Tye has painted a man of desperation – constantly nervous, antisocial, taking part in robberies with gangs and higher vampires, going as far as to hunt down the Crone. If it weren’t for Ameer’s adamant assurance, Yennefer would doubt this even was Tye. Does Pivoine know about Tye’s deeds? Does she know that her beloved sold someone into slavery, for reasons they don’t yet understand? Does she know that Tye is currently searching for a monster who is known to eat young children?

Across the room, Ameer speaks quietly. “Yennefer.”

“What is it?” She hastily folds up the letters and shoves them into her bag before walking over.

“…The stag. I told you about it, yes? It was half dead. It had run across all of Crookback Bog being pursued before it reached Greyrocks and died. Now that I think about it, the drowners and leshen may well have injured it. But…they did not kill it outright. Had I not intervened, it would have succumbed to its wounds.”

She frowns. “That’s strange. After all that effort, why give up the chase?”

“It is not just the stag. That witcher was almost dead when you pulled him out – as was I.” He avoids looking at Witold. “Yet the leshen gave up quickly. It did not pursue us, even though it could have easily overwhelmed us. Now look at the map – tell me where the border between Greyrocks and Crookback Bog is.”

Zoltan takes out the map from his bag and examines it. “The river.”

“The furthest those drowners could travel beyond the river was a pace or two. I think the majority of her power is confined there. That is why she did not have the drowners and leshen finish off the stag when it escaped, or the witcher, or even come after me. She would lose her hold over them.”

“There’s truth in your words.” Witold agrees. “The most dangerous battles I’ve fought have all been in Crookback Bog. Something is different about the monsters down there – and the animals too. They’re way more aggressive.”

At last, the door to the surgical room opens. Regis walks out, cleaning his blood-stained hands on a towel.

“Well?” Yennefer asks him urgently. “Is he alive?”

“Yes. We’ve closed the wounds and excised the infected flesh. He’s in stable condition.” He explains, looking somewhat tired. “I’m sure he’ll recover, in no small part thanks to his witcher metabolism, but he’ll need plenty of bedrest.”

Yennefer sighs in relief. “That’s good to hear.”

“He’s awake, though rather dazed and groggy. He wanted to speak with us all.”

Ameer hesitates. “Maybe I should stay out here.”

“What’s the matter?” Regis asks.

Ameer hesitates, gaze flickering between Witold and Dulla. “Nothing. Did you manage to recover all of the witcher’s tools? Such as his medallion, his swords, and such?”

Regis picks up on Ameer’s concern immediately. “I’m afraid not. His swords and his medallion were both lost. Witold, are there any crutches that Ameer could use?”

“I think so. Let me have a look.” As Witold turns to collect a set of crutches from Jemima’s supplies, Regis quickly reaches into his pockets and brings out a silver eagle head on a chain. Yennefer recognises it instantly as the insignia of the Griffin school, since she has one herself. It had belonged to the man Leo Bonhardt, the man who killed Ciri’s friends and abused her terribly, and who had attempted to rape Yennefer herself while in Vilgefortz’s captivity. After Ciri had slain the man, just as he had witchers from the school of the griffin, cat and wolf, she had given the griffin medallion to Yennefer. It as a rather macabre gift, but Yennefer always kept it. A stark reminder of the cost that politics and prophecy had almost cost their family, and a vindictive reminder of the wrath that those who harmed them ultimately faced.

This medallion is currently vibrating, no doubt because of Ameer’s presence. Regis throws it to Ameer, who catches it and quickly slips it into his own pocket. Sighing in relief, he mouths a ‘thank you’ towards Regis. Good. Who knows how this witcher might react to Ameer being a vulpess?

Inside, the witcher in question is lying on a bed, looking considerably better than when he first came in. His face isn’t so deathly pale, and the bloody mess of wounds have been expertly cleaned and bandaged. Now that his face has been cleaned of mud and blood, she can see his brown beard is surprisingly well kept, and that a scar travels over his nose and across his right cheek. His eyes are open, showing those tell-tale cat eyes, but they’re currently focused on the medic.

“…You are…so beautiful.” He says drowsily – no doubt his filter is completely switched off from the pain killers.

The medic, whose name Yennefer remembers is Shani, just smiles patiently as she tidies away her tools. “That’s kind of you. Look, your visitors are here –” when she looks at their somewhat ragtag group, she breaks off. A genuine smile appears on her face.

“Zoltan?”

“Shani!” They embrace warmly and familiarly. Just how many reunions are there going to be today, Yennefer thinks with amusement.

“What the hell are you doing here, in a shithole like Velen?” Zoltan asks in disbelief.

“I could ask you the same question!” Shani grins. “But we can speak later. If you want to speak to Oskar, you’d better do it now before he falls asleep.”

At the sound of his name, the witcher, Oskar, looks over at the group. For a second he just stares, blinking hard as he tries to remember who they are and what he wanted to say.

At last, he speaks up. He reaches out and weakly grabs Regis’s arm. “You saved me. You risked your life to save me.”

Regis smiles weakly. He himself risked nothing, being immortal, but the cost to the rescue was still almost very high. “Don’t worry yourself about it. We just did what any other decent person would do.”

“Not many decent people would fight off swarms of drowners and a leshen to rescue a stranger.” He counters. “Thank you. All of you. What can I give you?”

“Nothing.” Yennefer says firmly. “Though I’m curious to know exactly how you ended up in that predicament.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and resting his head against the pillow. For a moment, it looks as if he’s fallen asleep.

“…People down in Crookback Bog. They were having trouble with alghouls near Downwarren. I took the contract. Thought it would be easy. While I was searching for them…ran into this guy. He was injured, bleeding everywhere, passed out on the ground. Thought I’d help. Used igni to cauterise the wound. Got him up on my horse and decided to take him out of Crookback Bog. Those swamps are no place for such an injury. He was half lucid, babbling nonsense, laughing like he was happy about something even though he had been bleeding everywhere. We were getting close to the border when the leshen attacked.” He swallows. “Pack of wolves took out my horse, mauled her to pieces. It almost speared me with roots – hit me here.” He gestures to the wound on his abdomen. “The man, he must’ve been a mage. ‘Cause he woke up, opened a portal, and stepped through. Didn’t leave it open for me, though. He just abandoned me there. I realised I wasn’t gonna win this fight, so I ran. And…” His eyes narrow, remembering the scene with confused horror. “It was like all the drowners of Crookback Bog were chasing me! They took my swords, and I fell in the river, and…I never should have come here. I’m never coming back here again.”

“You certainly had a near-death experience.” Regis agrees. “I’m just glad we were around to help you.”

“Please. Let me give you something – anything.” Oskar insists. “I don’t have much coin, but –”

“Nonsense. You don’t owe us anything.” Regis insists just as firmly.

Oskar sighs, closing his eyes again. “If I ever see that bastard mage again…I helped him!”

Yennefer frowns. “Who was this mage?”

“I never got his name.”

A suspicion is growing strongly inside of her. “What did he look like?”

“Uh…” Oskar thinks hard about it. “Brown hair. Kind of long? Had this red cloth across his forehead.”

Yennefer freezes.

“A red cloth?” She repeats. Next to her, she can sense the same shock, anger and excitement in Regis and Ameer without even having to look at their faces. No matter how many times they hear his description, it never fails to affect them. Hurriedly, she takes out the drawing of Tye and holds it in front of Oskar.

“Is this the man you saw?” She asks urgently.

Oskar studies it carefully, still half-asleep from the pain killers. Slowly, he nods.

“Yeah. That’s the fucker. But,” he points weakly to the drawing, “it’s wrong.”

Yennefer frowns. “How so?”

“When I saw him…he was missing an ear.”

Dread crashes over Yennefer like a tidal wave. Freezing and suffocating.

“You said – You said he was lucid, babbling nonsense. What exactly was he saying?” Regis asks urgently, his own expression one of dismay.

“He was saying…He was saying ‘I found her. They’re all wrong. She’s alive. I found her. She helped me.’ And he was laughing.”

“Who? Who did he find?” Yennefer already knows the answer, but she desperately wishes to be wrong.

Oskar sighs, eyes closing heavily. Exhaustion is ensnaring him. But quietly, the words slip out of his mouth before he falls asleep.

“…He said…The Lady helped him…And now, he stood a chance.”

-

Night has already fallen over Velen, the month of autumn hastily passing by and plunging them into darker and darker days. A full moon hangs in the sky, tinged yellow in colour. Despite its strong glow and the stars above them, unobscured by the smoky pollution of Novigrad, the lunar light does little to alleviate the gloom around Velen. The village of Newmoor feels ominous and miserable in the darkness. The Pontar next to them churns and gurgles with the movement of nocturnal creatures, and the forest creaks with hidden, rustling movement.

Yennefer watches out the window of the inn they’re residing in. Gods. She’s so sick of these inns. Newmoor is quite large for a village in Velen, most likely because of its port. Plenty of boats, lobster cages and nets filled with fish point towards a rare source of income for this area. Not just that, but a safe distance from the shore, ships of considerable size are anchored in the river. This port doesn’t just deal in fishing anymore. It’s become an important harbour for those travelling up and down the Pontar. This is a nice enough inn, but she doesn’t care. She’s sick of being away from Corvo Bianco. She just wants to take Geralt and go home. An impossible wish right now, but a wish all the same.

Yet it’s not the inn itself that makes Yennefer uneasy. It’s the region, with its stale winds and stinking water and ominous, monster-infested fields. She’s already sick of being here, and it’s only going to get worse as they travel further into the swamps.

At least tonight they’ll have a warm bed and food, she thinks, forcing herself to find the positive. She can see that her friends are struggling to do the same.

In the privacy of their room, Yennefer explains to Regis what she and Ameer have figured out: that the Crone’s influence was confined to Crookback Bog; that all the animals and monsters were under her thrall, including the leshen, which is working for her. And, of course, discussing the fact that Tye has succeeded in his mission to find the Crone and has fled from Velen.

Regis, despite being a rather loquacious man himself, doesn’t interrupt once. He listens intensely, his expression one of immense concern and dread. As she talks, Ameer, sitting curled up on the bed, stares distractedly out of the window at the darkness across the fields and river. Yennefer wonders what he sees that she can’t in the shadow of night.

Regis sighs, holding his forehead with his hand. “…This is all a bloody mess.”

“We can no longer intercept him.” Yennefer says bitterly. “So the only way to find out where he’s gone will be to ask the Crone directly.” She still can’t believe he succeeded in finding her – and survived the encounter too.

Ameer drags his gaze from the window. His eyes look more fox than elf in the heaviness of his thought. He blinks, and his eyes change back to their normal elven appearance. “Even if you make it to the orphanage, you may not find her. The godling told me she has been very reclusive as of late. She may only have showed herself to Tye because he smelt of ‘badness’, whatever the hell that means. There is no guarantee she will show herself to you.”

“And there’s no guarantee she’ll help us, either.” Yennefer laments. “She might outright attack us. She might try to eat us, like they almost did to Ciri. At the very least, she’ll ask for something in return, some twisted task or impossible favour.”

Regis walks to the window, opening it up and allowing in a draft of cold air. With a quiet flap of his wings, Tatanu flies through the open window and lands on Regis’s shoulder. Regis strokes beneath his chin, and Tatanu fluffs up his feathers happily. He begins to caw and flap his wings, while Regis listens intently.

“What is it?”

“He’s been speaking to the other ravens, and he has news from Skellige.”

Ciri. Oh, how Yennefer misses her. “What is it? Is she all right?”

Regis listens to Tatanu. “…It’s about the letter you sent. Asking about the Crones. She says that the Crones can take on different forms – polymorph. Normally, Whispess would appear with a hood and garland of ears, Brewess would have a basket, and Weavess a pointed hat. She says that they can turn into flocks of ravens, and draw their power from the land itself. And two years ago, she tried to hunt the last one, to get back Vesemir’s medallion. But she couldn’t find her. She searched Velen for three weeks before giving up.”

“That doesn’t bode well for us. If even Ciri couldn’t find Weavess…” Yennefer massages her temples. Has she made a mistake? Ciri is the only person alive who has faced the Crones in combat and not only survived, but been successful. Has Yennefer made a mistake leaving Ciri in Skellige? After all, when they left, Cerys was successfully quashing anymore rumblings of rebellion left among the isles. The likelihood of an attack on Geralt’s body are admittedly low. Are Ciri’s skills wasted in Skellige?

But she cannot risk Geralt’s life on likelihoods, no matter how small they might be. Tye may have made other allies in Skellige alongside Carrik and Arvid, ones that stayed out of the treasonous plot against Cerys and are therefore unknown to them. What’s the point of any of this if Geralt’s soul has no body to return to?

Besides, though Ciri may have won against the Crones before, Yennefer cannot ask her daughter to return back to this dangerous land in good conscience.

Is that a mistake? Is Yennefer being too cautious? She’s normally a sure woman, certain of her own decisions and choices. But this situation is so beyond her realm of experience.

More painfully than ever, she wishes Geralt was here. True, she trusts both Regis and Ameer, but neither know her as well as Geralt. She wants someone who, not only can she trust wholeheartedly, but knows her more intimately than anyone else in the world, with no need to put up a front or an act. She craves the comfort of a second opinion from the one she is closest to.

She quickly continues, lest Regis or Ameer notice her melancholic mood. “Getting to the orphanage in the first place will be difficult enough, let alone speaking with the Crone.”

Regis nods, brow furrowed in concern. “Difficult, and undoubtedly very dangerous. You’re only mortal, Yennefer. Even I could be incapacitated by whatever terrible powers she possesses.”

Ameer sighs, closing his eyes. When he speaks, it’s with heavy reluctance. “…Actually, there is a way for you to reach the orphanage safely.”

Yennefer frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Witold…Witold has been to the orphanage many times. He has escorted villagers from Crookback Bog there safely. If anyone can get you there without being harmed, he can.” His expression is one of painful defeat. He can no doubt guess Yennefer’s thought process:

Witold may be strange, but he knows how to get to the orphanage. He saved Ameer, and looked after Dulla – Dulla, a merchant who would’ve been both easy and very rewarding to rob. Yet Witold didn’t.

So Witold may be strange, but he doesn’t seem untrustworthy. And he knows how to get the orphanage.

“It would be madness not to hire him.” Ameer continues, looking thoroughly unhappy. No doubt he’s heavily regretting his behaviour last night. “You agree, yes? He is most likely your best chance of reaching the orphanage unscathed.”

“You’re right.” She wonders how much he’ll be charging. Probably a lot, considering the danger of the location they wish to visit.

Regis looks like he’s barely listening, though. He speaks suddenly. “You know, I didn’t hear the leshen coming. I didn’t sense it.”

Yennefer frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know I’m not bragging when I say this, but I have far superior senses to you. Both Ameer and I do.” He glances at Ameer. “Your sense of smell is very acute, moreso than mine, but my vision and hearing outrank yours.”

“But you didn’t see or hear the leshen coming.” Yennefer finishes for him.

Regis leans forwards, holding his hand to his chin pensively. “It’s not just enhanced senses though, Yennefer. We have…an intuition, I suppose one could call it. Or an instinct. Details can become known to us without being physically sensed, often before they even happen. These events often involve magic, or fellow creatures like us – other vampires or Fox Mothers or drowners.” He sighs again, brow furrowed in thought. “It is very difficult to explain. This is my first time attempting to put it into words. Am I making sense? Let me use an example. When Gwenllian and I first met, we both sensed something was _wrong._ Our disguises were sufficient enough to hide our true identities from each other, and had one of us been human, we wouldn’t have thought anything was unusual. But we both sensed something wasn’t right regardless. Deep down, we knew that the other wasn’t human. We had no facts to support this. Just a feeling. Have I explained it well? Do you agree, Ameer?”

Ameer nods. “We cannot explain it. We just _know_.”

“I think I understand.” Yennefer nods.

Regis runs his hand his over his face. “I should’ve sensed the leshen coming. I should’ve known. I’ve made mistakes in the past, certainly, but nothing like _this_. I didn’t sense the leshen’s presence. Not when it dragged Ameer into the river, not even as it was actively trapping Oskar in the water. I was oblivious to its presence there. I…I can’t trust my instincts around the Crone. And that frightens me, Yennefer. It frightens me immensely.” 

A silence falls upon the group. Solemn and anxious.

Ameer’s fist clenches. He straightens up, an edge of defiance in his eyes. “The Crone has made a mistake, though.”

Regis looks surprised. “A mistake?”

“She has played her card too early. Now we know her tricks. We will be more cautious next time, and we will not fall for them again.” He speaks confidently – too confidently. It’s clear that he too is afraid, but he’s trying to put on a brave face. 

Despite his efforts, the atmosphere remains miserable and tense. “…I’m sorry, Ameer.” Regis continues sombrely. “I put you at risk.”

Ameer frowns. “What?”

“I jumped into the river without even thinking, and you were dragged in because of it. If I’d realised – I’d never have put a stranger’s safety above yours –”

“Regis, no. Do not apologise.” Ameer says firmly. “None of us knew what was going to happen. You did a good thing, and now a life has been saved. Besides, I have always liked that about you, Regis. You are kind for the sake of kindness, and expect nothing for it.”

Yennefer smiles. “So you like kind people, Ameer? Who do kind things for nothing?”

He instantly understands who she’s referencing. His face turns red, and he scowls.

“Shut up.” When Regis begins laughing quietly, Ameer thumps him on the arm. “You too! It is bad enough he will be travelling with us, I do not need any more reminders from you two!”

At the expense of his embarrassment, though, the atmosphere is lightened. The downcast mood of dread and uncertainty is broken by a quick and easy laugh. And Regis doesn’t look so sombre anymore. Maybe Ameer realises that, for at the sight of Regis and Yennefer’s lifted moods, the anger dissipates from his own face somewhat.

Besides, Yennefer is pleased at his reaction. When she first found him in Skellige, Ameer would have suffered her remark in humiliated silence, too nervous and afraid to speak up for himself. Now, he’s confident enough to get irritated with them both. That’s good.

“I’m sorry, Ameer.” Regis smiles. “It just really is very poor luck, isn’t it?”

Ameer sighs. “Do not remind me. That logger was right – everything about this region is _cursed_. I cannot wait to leave.”

“Me neither. It will certainly be a relief.” Regis hesitates for a moment. “Speaking of our potential new companion, do you really trust him?”

Yennefer frowns in thought. “Partly. I trust him _enough_ to take us to the orphanage. Do you recognise him, Regis?”

“No. He did not meet Geralt while I was travelling alongside him.” She told Regis about the strange way he reacted to both her and the medallion. “So if he really does know Geralt, it happened either before we met, or while I was…absent.”

“Hm.” Interesting.

“You go and hire him. I think I shall stay up here.” Ameer decides. He quickly adds, “I want to rest so I can start healing my foot as soon as possible. I will leave the hiring to you.”

The man in question is downstairs. As she and Regis descend into the main hall, Yennefer spies him sitting at a table with Dulla, who chats with him excitedly about his upcoming projects in Toussaint. Next to them, Shani and Zoltan are also talking happily, obviously making up for lost time. The medic has taken off her bloodstained overalls, showing her high-neck green jerkin with simple but refined golden decoration around the hems. Her long white sleeves are finished with tight embroidered cuffs around the edges, and she wears a neat black skirt over warm leggings. Two things give away her profession, though. One is her necklace of a staff with snakes twined around it – the insignia of a medic. The other is the blood stains; she has kept most of her clothes very clean, but her boots are slightly tinged red from repeated splashes that have unfortunately seemed to embed the colour red into the leather.

A waiter comes to the table, carrying trays laden with food. When Dulla beckons her over, she puts down various plates at the table. In front of Witold, she places a lot down, including a hearty venison stew and a generous slice of a fruit pie.

Yennefer sits down with them at the table, Regis by her side. “That’s a lot of food you have there.” She points out.

Dulla heartily slaps Witold on the back. “He takes so little money, he always looks hungry whenever I see him. I tell you, he doesn’t take enough care of himself! So whenever we meet, I always buy him lots of food. It is the least I can do!” Witold really must have helped him out a few years ago, then. That bodes well for Yennefer’s decision to hire him.

At Dulla’s words, Witold looks incredibly uncomfortable. “Honestly, I don’t need all this.” He speaks quietly, almost guiltily.

“Don’t be silly.” Dulla grins. “Eat up! I hear you were very heroic at the river today; you deserve it!”

Witold smiles thinly, though the awkward guilt hasn’t left his eyes. “Thank you, Dulla. I appreciate it.”

Yennefer smooths back a stray strand of hair. “I hate to talk business while you’re in the middle of your meal, but I’d like to discuss your services.”

Witold lowers his fork. “Of course. You want to go to the orphanage?”

“Correct. How did you guess?” Yennefer asks.

“You’re a mage. So is your friend Ameer. Doubt you’d need my help unless it was somewhere particularly dangerous. Besides, your friend mentioned that this Tye fellow was interested in the Crones.”

“Would you be willing to escort us there? I understand it’s a very dangerous location –”

“Of course I’ll take you. I should warn you, though, it’s a long journey to the swamps. You’ll have to put up with me for a few days at least.”

Poor Ameer. “Not a problem. How much do you charge?”

“Enough to keep me fed.” Witold says simply. He holds out his hand.

Good. That’s one less complication to deal with. Yennefer shakes his hand. “A done deal. We’ll recuperate here for tonight, then set off tomorrow. Is that all right?”

“That’s more than all right. I’m pretty sure you all need the rest. I do too.”

Regis, who has been watching Witold with observant eyes, finally speaks up. “Forgive me for my directness, but I can’t help but notice your scars. Those seem to be some terrible wounds you received.”

Witold touches the largest, a sickle-shaped scar on the side of his head. “Comes with the territory in this line of work, I suppose.”

“Indeed. You seem to be a very sturdy individual.” Regis points out. “I happen to have considerable knowledge of medicine and anatomy. Such wounds could certainly be enough to fell plenty of robust men and women. May I ask, what happened?”

“Horse accident. It’s a long story.” Witold says brusquely, eyes quickly averting. 

“Forgive me. I don’t mean to pry.” Regis apologises. “Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me. I understand that discussions about scars are not normally a wanted topic of conversation, so I apologise.” His calm, easy tone and his gentle expression soothes all tension from the conversation.

“Ah, it’s fine. I’m used to it, honestly.” Witold shrugs. “It’s in an unfortunate place, after all.”

““Horses certainly are skittish creatures, and terribly prone to causing accidents. I ride a mule for this very reason.” Regis smiles. His hand slips under the table, and Yennefer feels it against her own, his fingers tapping against her. What is he doing?

Hiding her surprise, she holds out her palm. When he begins tracing something on her skin, she understands, and concentrates hard.

“The others are riding horses, though. I suppose there could be a risk of the horses becoming frightened and throwing their riders, since we’ll be travelling into such a monster-infested area.” He continues, tracing letters onto Yennefer’s hand.

“It’s a risk, true. That’s why I try to avoid monsters as much as I can.” Witold says, oblivious. “I’ve figured out which routes have less monsters – though avoiding them completely is impossible, I’m afraid.”

“A pity, but an inevitability in this region, it seems, based on at least our own experiences thus far.” Regis finishes tracing the word – sword? Wait, does he think that Witold’s scar was caused by a sword? Or some other similar weapon?

The horse accident is clearly a lie. What really caused those heavy scars? What secrets is this man hiding? Are they linked to those painfully intense feelings of guilt and grief?

“I’m glad you’ll be travelling with us.” Regis continues with a smile. “We’ll certainly have to pay close attention to you and your guidance, then.” Somehow Yennefer has a feeling those words were partly intended for her. A subtle plan. She stands by her decision to hire Witold, and she genuinely believes the man has no plans to rob or murder them. But cautiousness has always served her well, and she’d be a fool not to be wary of Witold. It cannot be denied that this man is carrying secrets – heavy, violent ones. And with mysteries comes danger, even if it’s unintentional. Such secrets can end up manifesting at the worst of times in the worst of ways.

She’ll have to be careful, and keep a close eye on him. At least Regis will also be here doing the same. And no matter what strange or dark secrets this man might be keeping, they’ll pale in comparison to having a vampire as a companion.

“Well, you seem like sensible folk. As long as you stick to the rules, we should hopefully be all right.” Witold explains. “And you seem to be far more powerful than the people I normally escort, anyway.”

In the corner of her eye, Yennefer sees Ameer carefully descending down the stairs with his crutches, finally having had enough of the isolation upstairs and craving the company and distracting noise of others. His timing is too early, though, Yennefer thinks. When he sees Witold, he freezes. And when Witold matches his gaze, Ameer quickly turns around and begins to hobble back upstairs.

“Wait.” Witold calls after him. He quickly stands up. “Excuse me. Won’t be a moment.”

Yennefer watches as he follows Ameer up the stairs. She waits a moment, for the sake of feigned politeness, before standing up herself.

“What’s the matter?” Regis asks, with his tone of voice clearly insinuating he knows exactly what she’s up to.

“I’m cold. I have a shawl in my room.” In all honesty, she’s not going to eavesdrop out of pure nosiness, or even out of any mistrust towards Witold. She feels a pang of sympathy for Ameer – almost drowning has been plenty enough of an ordeal for him. No need to add a horribly awkward conversation to an already rotten day. If worse comes to worst, she can bail him out.

Perhaps Regis also senses this, for he neither objects nor complains. Yennefer carefully walks up the stairs, back towards their room. She pauses in the hallway, peering around the corner cautiously. She can see Ameer and Witold standing outside the door to their room – the former looking particularly awkward and embarrassed.

“Look.” Witold scratches the back of his head. “I’m sorry that I upset you.”

Ameer looks away. “Upset? You have no need to apologise. I am…I am just embarrassed.”

Witold frowns. “About what?”

“About…last night.” Ameer keeps his gaze on the floor.

“Oh, don’t be. It wasn’t far from the inn. It’s not like you left me alone in the middle of a forest or something.”

“Not that! Though,” Ameer falters, “I am sorry about that. It is…you know.” His face flushes, and he refuses to finish the sentence.

Not that he needs to. Now Witold seems to understand. “Ah. I see.”

“I am sorry. For doing that. I…misunderstood.”

“Don’t be sorry. And you don’t need to be embarrassed.” Now Witold hesitates. “…It was nothing personal. Nothing to do with you, certainly.”

Ameer nods, his face still flushed. “I see.”

“Either way, I wasn’t angry. I was just surprised, is all, that you’d want to kiss an ugly mug like me.”

Ameer raises an eyebrow. “Those are harsh words.”

Witold shrugs nonchalantly, no hint of sarcasm or jesting on his face. Yennefer gets the impression that he wasn’t just joking or alleviating the mood. He really doesn’t think highly of himself. “Sorry if I led you on or confused you.” He continues. “That wasn’t my intention.”

Ameer sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “No, no. You did not lead me on. You…You were very kind to me, and I let myself get carried away.”

“Those aren’t very high standards.” Witold points out frankly.

Ameer’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be blunt.” Witold says hastily. “I just think, isn’t kindness the bare minimum you should expect from someone? Isn’t that just basic decency?”

Ameer frowns, looking away again. “Yes, but the world is frequently unkind, is it not?”

“I suppose that’s true.” For a second, Witold looks thoughtful. Something flashes across his face – guilt? Yennefer isn’t sure why, but she doesn’t dare risk trying to read his mind again.

“But that doesn’t mean you should settle for simple basic decency. You deserve much better than that.” Witold pauses. “Ah, now that _does_ sound like I’m leading you on, doesn’t it? Sorry. But the point still stands.”

Ameer nods slowly, looking pensive at Witold’s words. Yennefer wonders what he’s thinking about.

“I had a fun time that evening. I’m not angry about anything, and I don’t have any regrets.” Witold continues. “It’d be a shame if we felt we had to keep avoiding each other, especially since we’ll be travelling together for a while.”

“That is true.” Ameer relents. “I suppose, if you are not angry…”

“Of course not. Let’s start over, shall we?” Witold offers his hand. “Nice to meet you again, Ameer. I’m looking forwards to travelling with you.”

The embarrassment and flush fades from Ameer’s face, and he finally smiles as he shakes Witold’s hand. “Even if it is through a hellhole like Velen?”

“Even if it’s through a hellhole like Velen.”

Satisfied, Yennefer quickly steps away and returns back downstairs. Thank goodness all that tension has been cleared from the air.

Indeed, when they both return back downstairs, Ameer seems to be in a considerably better mood. But that doesn’t mean Yennefer can relax. The next fire to pre-emptively put out is Zoltan. No more drinking foolishly tonight, she firmly decides to herself. The last thing she wants is for him to wake up with another terrible hangover just before they venture into Crookback Bog. He’s had one drink, and she’s determined to make sure he drinks no more.

This she manages by beckoning him over from the bar. “Zoltan, come here. Introduce us to your friend.”

Fortunately, Zoltan doesn’t seem to sense her ulterior motives, and excitedly introduces the medic. “Everyone, this is Shani. She’s a medic from Oxenfurt, and an old pal of mine and Dandelion’s. Shani, this is – well, it’ll take a while, our travelling party’s grown a bit!” He goes across the table, pointing at each person. “This is Yennefer, Regis, Ameer, Witold and Dulla. We’re all travelling through Velen together.”

“Nice to meet you all.” Her gaze lingers on Witold, and her smile falters. “I’m sorry…Have I met you before?”

Witold frowns, confused. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Huh. Never mind. I was probably thinking of someone else…You said your name was Witold?”

“That’s right.”

“Ah…You’re the witcher who isn’t a witcher.” She nods in understanding. “That must be why I thought I recognised you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope?”

“Oh, yes. You have quite a reputation.”

“As he should do! Did you know, he pulled my good friend Ameer out of the clutches of a leshen?” Dulla exclaims.

Witold shrugs uncomfortably. “It was just a stroke of luck. Right place, right time. Besides, Shani, you were the one who saved the witcher from the brink of death.” He moves on the conversation smoothly.

Shani smiles at Regis. “Well, I had a lot of help. You did good work back there on Oskar.”

“Thank you, my dear. As did you – I’m glad I had another professional on my side.”

Shani hesitates. “You know, I remember Dandelion mentioning a man called Regis. He said you were both good friends. That’s you, right?”

“Indeed it is. We’re good friends.” Regis confirms.

“He…He spoke about your upbringing.” She says delicately.

“Did he?” Regis understands her meaning and smiles thinly, no doubt thinking the same thing that Yennefer is: damn it, Dandelion! Just how many people did you tell about Regis being a vampire?

“We did think you were dead at the time.” Zoltan adds very quietly. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Regis nods patiently. Nothing to be done about it now. He quickly changes the topic. “Tell me, Shani, if you’re from Oxenfurt, what are you doing all the way in Velen?”

“Recently, I was called to Vizima – there’s been an outbreak of Catriona plague recently so I was ordered to go there and help. I didn’t mind about taking the long journey. That disease is devastating. Took the life of my friend and mentor Rusty.” Her face saddens at this. “But the situation was under control soon enough. There have been some great breakthroughs with cures for Catriona.”

All down to Keira Metz, Yennefer muses. Her decision to run off with Lambert and the mage Alexander’s notes has certainly served her well.

“Anyway, I was given permission to return back to Oxenfurt. In fact, I’m rather eager to get there. I’ve heard there have been some protests in the Academy – I graduated from there, so I wanted to go and help in the negotiations before violence broke out. I was going to catch a boat ride here to the Oxenfurt port, but they’re telling me the ports at Oxenfurt are closed right now.”

“You’ll probably find that the negotiations are already over, anyway.” Yennefer tells her with a smile. “Our mutual friend Dandelion has taken it upon himself to end the protests too, and he can be surprisingly diplomatic.”

Shani smiles at this. “Either that, or he’ll offend someone and get himself thrown in prison.”

“Another likelihood.” She could certainly see that happening. “Are you travelling by yourself, Shani?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Impressive. Not many women would want to travel the likes of Velen alone.”

Shani nods at this. “That’s true. It’s certainly one of the poorer regions I’ve visited in my life. Though I’ve not faced any difficulties so far – I try to travel by boat when I can, and every village offers me a place to stay, free of charge. In return, I provide healthcare for them. It’s not easy, though. Hard to treat malnutrition and the like. Luckily, up here in Greyrocks isn’t so bad. Crookback Bog is much worse – all the crops are failing, and no one can figure out why. They’ve brought in all sorts of mages and alchemists to try and fix this blight, but nothing’s working.” Shani shakes her head. “Winter will be here soon. The villagers aren’t ready to accept it, but they’re going to have to move. They won’t survive the winter in the swamps without any food.”

Dulla shakes his head, sipping from his glass. “I am glad I will not be staying here, then. The sooner I get to Toussaint, the better.”

Shani looks at Ameer. “Are you going to Toussaint together?”

“I wish I was.” Ameer shakes his head. “I will be travelling down into Crookback Bog – all of us are, except for Dulla.”

Shani frowns. Her gaze flickers between the various members of the group. “You’re all travelling into Crookback Bog?”

“Yes, we are.” Yennefer confirms.

Now, Shani’s gaze falls upon her. Behind her hazel eyes and pretty freckled face, Yennefer senses sharp wit and observant intelligence.

“Yennefer – of Vengerberg fame, right?” She asks. “Dandelion’s written a lot of ballads about you.”

Yennefer sighs. “That’s right. Some without my permission, I must add.”

“Is Geralt not with you?”

Yennefer is taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

She’s not the only one. Though he tries to hide it, Yennefer can sense Witold’s intense gaze upon her.

“Well, I keep in contact with Dandelion through letters. And he mentioned Geralt had retired down in Toussaint with you. Forgive me for being blunt, but why are you all the way up here in Velen alone?” Shani asks.

Yennefer feels her pulse quicken as her mind scrambles for an excuse at this unexpected questioning. “He’s in Skellige right now. He’s helping our daughter with something.” She hopes Shani doesn’t ask any follow up questions.

“I see.” Shani nods thoughtfully, though she does not seem to be completely taken by this response. “So, why do you want to go to Crookback Bog?”

“The man we showed to Oskar – he was searching for the last Crone. He’s called Tye. Very dangerous. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Shani shakes her head. “And you said he’s interested in the Crones of Crookback Bog…That’s an old cult, right? A branch of the Melitele religion.”

“You could say that.” Regis says vaguely. “Do you know much about them?”

“I don’t know much. The cult is dying out, though, that’s for sure. Jemima tells me the Ladies don’t exist, at all, and down in the swamps folk say the Ladies were killed about four years ago.”

Wait. “When you say the Ladies, who exactly do you mean?” Yennefer asks. “All three of them?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Shani admits.

“Is there someone who does know?”

“You can try. But the folk here don’t like talking about them.” Shani thinks about it. “You could try and ask Jemima. She seems to know a lot about them. Do you want to go and ask?”

“That would be helpful, thank you.”

Outside, the night is sharply cold. Yennefer is glad for her thick clothes as she walks alone with Shani, leaving the others to start planning their next route into the Crone’s territory. Each shadow distracts her – her mind conjures drowners lurking behind houses, envisions creeping roots at their heels, with each flicker of darkness. 

“So, how did you meet Geralt?” Yennefer asks as they walk, trying to distract herself. The Crone’s influence remains in Crookback Bog; they are safe here. Well. Safer.

“Yes. He, Dandelion and Philippa Eilhart were looking for a man called Rience. I’d met him once. A mage with a burn on his face.”

“Ah, yes. I gave him that.”

Shani smiles. “Good. He was a slimy bastard. Made some very unwanted advances towards me.”

“Yes, he was a slimy bastard. Among many things, he tortured Dandelion.”

“Dandelion? Why?”

“It’s a very long story. Luckily for Dandelion, I was able to rescue him – and gave Rience that burn scar.”

“He escaped the day I met Geralt. What happened to him in the end?”

“My daughter killed him. He drowned in a lake.” After she had run over his fingers on ice skates, cutting them clean off.

They reach not the herbalist’s hut, but a thatched cottage closely adjacent to it, looking out across the river where mist rolls gloomily in. This must be the herbalist’s living quarters. Two sheep huddle in a pen while a black cat stalks the perimeter, eyes wide and green as it searches for rodents. Shani knocks on the door and isn’t left waiting long.

A young and tired looking woman opens the door. “Oh, Shani! What’re you doing here at this hour?” Her expression becomes worried. “Is someone else hurt? Do you need Jemima?”

“No one else is hurt.” Shani reassures her. “I did want to speak with Jemima, though. Is she available?”

“She’s a little busy right now. My son’s hurt himself.”

“Oh dear. What happened?”

“Silly boy, was chasing his brother and sisters around in the fields. Tripped and fell, hurt his arm. It’s painful and has gone all swollen.”

“A possible fracture, perhaps.” Shani decides. “This is Yennefer. She wanted to ask Jemima some questions – why don’t I look at your son’s arm in the meantime?”

The woman stands aside to let them in. “Of course! Come in, please.”

Inside, the house is crowded and warm. A small fire blazes in a soot-laden hearth, with a pot sitting over the flames. The smell of fish and root vegetables from a bubbling stew fills the house. Four children sit on a rug in front of the pot – two boys, two girls – watching it impatiently. Jemima, who Yennefer assumes is the grandmother of these children, is carefully examining his arm.

“Jemima.” Shani catches her attention.

“Shani? What’s happened? Has the witcher’s condition worsened?” Jemima asks worriedly, leaving the children by the fireplace.

“No, no, he’s doing fine. But Yennefer here wanted to speak with you. I can look at your grandson’s fracture in the meantime.”

Jemima looks upon Yennefer somewhat suspiciously. “You want to talk with me? About what?”

“About the Ladies of the Woods.”

As soon as she says it, Yennefer regrets her lack of tact. She should’ve been more delicate about the question. For the effect is astounding: Jemima’s face drains entirely of colour; her eyes widen in panic. Then her mouth twists into an angry grimace.

“There’s no talk of such things in this house.” She says sharply. “I won’t have some outsider coming into my home and asking me about the –” she looks back at the children, who are oblivious to the conversation. “…You should leave. Now.”

Before Yennefer can argue in any way, Shani intervenes. “Jemima, please. We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. The leshen attack today almost killed her friend.”

Jemima folds her arms. She stares at the ground, thinking hard. After a moment of tense silence, she finally speaks up.

“…Fine. For five minutes.”

“Thank you.” Shani says gratefully, then walks over to the children, a smile on her face. “Hi there, kids.”

The children clamour around her, their intense watching of the pot forgotten.

“It’s Shani! It’s Shani!”

“Look at my arm! My cut has scabbed over! Are you impressed?”

“Shani, tell us more about Vizima! Is it beautiful?”

She laughs. “All right, all right. One at a time. But first, I’ve heard a certain someone fell over in the fields…”

A young boy, who has been silent all this time, nods miserably. His lip wobbles and tears well in his eyes. A poorly made sling keeps his left arm elevated.

“Right. I’m going to have a look at it, see if I can’t make it feel a bit better.”

Yennefer feels a tight hand on her arm. Jemima leads her from the main room, into a small bedroom crammed with beds. A small table covered in various dried leaves and flowers is shoved in the corner – Yennefer knows enough about herbs to realise these aren’t for healing, but for very basic charms and divinity.

“Why do _you_ want to know about the Ladies? They’re not real, you know.” She immediately demands, wasting no time with formalities.

She’s lying. Even if Ciri and Geralt hadn’t told her about their encounters with the Crone, Yennefer can see that Jemima is lying through her teeth. There’s a nervous guilt in her gaze that she cannot hide.

“We both know that’s a lie.” Yennefer says evenly. “What can you tell me about the Ladies? And why is everyone in Greyrocks insisting that they’re not real?”

Sighing, Jemima sits carefully down on the bed. She wrings her frail hands together, which tremble with old age. They look heavily calloused and overworked. Repeated needle pricks and cuts from chopping up herbs, Yennefer guesses.

“…Apparently, the Ladies are the protectors of Velen. _Were_ the protectors. They looked after us. They were cruel mistresses, true. Not to be crossed. But we had no one else. Or so the stories say. But they’re not real, never were.”

Yennefer sits down opposite her. She listens carefully.

“The stories say that for hundreds of years, the Ladies protected Velen from evil and famine. My granny told me a story once. A long, long time ago, She-Who-Knows ruled this land. She was powerful but lonely, so she brought three daughters into this world. The Ladies. But She-Who-Knows fell into insanity, started killing the simple folks like me and you. None of us could stop her. None. Not even a sorceress like yourself. So the Ladies killed her. Must’ve been terrible, killing their own mother. But they did it for the good of Velen.”

“How selfless of them.” Yennefer says flatly.

Jemima ignores her. “Time and again, they would protect Velen from evil and famine. Every year, on their Sabbath, the people were gifted with acorns from the Ancient Oak. They helped crops grow, so they might live another year.” She removes her coif. “But it’s all just folk stories. People need something to believe in, so they believed in the Ladies. None of it were real, but I suppose I’m not one to question the faith of others. There. I’ve told you all I know.”

“Well, I don’t…” Yennefer trails off. She can see something underneath Jemima’s hair that wasn’t visible before because of the coif.

“You’re missing an ear.”

Jemima freezes.

Yennefer narrows her gaze. “You’re lying to me. You know the Ladies are real, you’ve worshipped them yourself. You believed in them. Why are you pretending otherwise now?”

Jemima looks down at her withered, gnarled hands that must have seen endless tragedies in this forgotten land. She says nothing.

“…You’re ashamed, aren’t you?” Yennefer realises. “That’s why you and everyone else in Greyrocks are pretending the Ladies never even existed. You’re ashamed of the things you did for them as part of your worship.”

“You don’t know what it’s like living here.” Jemima speaks sharply. “We had no one. Even before we became the trampling ground for the war four years ago, even before Nilfgaardians and Temerians alike would storm through our villages, pillaging and murdering and raping, we had _no one_. Through famine and plague, do you think Foltest ever cared? Ever tried to help us? Send us aid or money? Did his father ever help? Or his father, or his father? We had no one. No one but the Ladies. Can you blame us, then? When we were offered protection by them – no matter how cruel they might be – how could we say no? We had no one else to help us, so of course we did whatever they told us to. We know they acted for the good of Velen.”

A spark of anger ignites inside of Yennefer. “Even sacrifice children?” She asks calmly.

Jemima’s face pales. “How –”

“I know about the trail of treats. I know about the Ladies’ cannibalistic habits. And you’re ashamed of it, all of you. So you’re pretending it never happened.” The coward’s way out in some futile attempt to assuage their guilt.

“…You don’t know what it’s like.” Jemima’s voice is a lot quieter than before. “You’re not from here. You don’t know what it’s like. I never myself…But I won’t judge those who did.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. From beyond the door, Yennefer can hear the children clamouring and chatting excitedly to Shani.

“I’m a mother, you know.” Yennefer says. “The Ladies tried to eat my daughter. I didn’t ask for anything, they weren’t going to give me a magic acorn for that sacrifice. They found my daughter in the forests, injured and unconscious. And these sacred Ladies were going to eat her.”

Jemima nods. She looks tired. “They were cruel mistresses. As time has passed, I see now that they weren’t benevolent. And all those sacrifices – all that blood and tears – in the end, none of it was necessary. That was just the cruel ways of the Ladies. They didn’t need sacrifice and homage in the form of children’s blood to help Velen thrive. It was all a cruel trick.” Her gaze darkens. “But don’t be mistaken, sorceress. Just because the Ladies were cruel and deceitful, and just because our children’s blood wasn’t necessary, doesn’t mean we didn’t need the Ladies themselves. Their power really did keep Velen alive, no matter their viciousness and trickery. Now they’re gone. Soon, Velen will wither and die. It’s already started in Crookback Bog. It’s only a matter of time before it starts here, too.”

The blight that Witold and Johnny told Ameer about. “You’re talking about the crops failing and monsters attacking?”

She nods. “When the war ended, things were good for a while. We started recuperating. For the first time in this land, we received aid – reparations from the Black Ones and Temerians. It was all some political gesture of good will rather than actually giving a shit about us, but who were we to complain? Villages were rebuilt. Trade started. For once, it looked as if we might prosper.”

“But then the blight started?”

“Crops started failing. Monster attacks were becoming more common. Prey started fleeing. Now, all of Crookback Bog faces starvation. Over in the west, Crowsperch is beginning to have problems too. It won’t be long till it spreads to us.” Jemima puts her head in her hands. “Me and my daughter and her husband, we’re savin money to move to Redania when the time inevitably comes. We’re not the only ones. I hear the other northern villagers are doing the same. But in Crookback Bog, they’re leaving gifts at the orphanage, hoping to bring the Ladies back. Fools. It won’t work.” She smiles bitterly. “In the end, it wasn’t just us who needed the Ladies. It was Velen itself, too. And without them, the land is dying.”

Yennefer frowns. Again, something doesn’t seem right here.

“What do you mean by, ‘without the Ladies’?”

Jemima looks up. Her face hardens, takes on an ashen appearance. “Don’t you know? Four years ago, at the same time the war ended, the Ladies died. It was their sabbath, their holy day. They were murdered.”

“And when you say the Ladies died, you mean all _three_ of them?”

Jemima looks at her with an empty expression. “What else would I mean?”

This is what Yennefer suspected. But even hearing it confirmed, she’s still overwhelmed by confusion.

“Really? Not a single one survived?”

“Nay. The whole of Velen mourned the loss of our Ladies. Brewess, Weavess, Whispess.”

“Are you certain? I implore you, think hard. Are you sure Weavess is dead?”

Jemima’s eyes cloud with anger. “Am I certain? You, an outsider, are asking if I am certain?” Roughly, she stands up and snatches something from her table. A piece of parchment with images drawn across it in charcoal, Yennefer realises.

“When the blight started, a pellar across by Crowsperch performed a spell to try and see how to fix it. Do you know what he saw in the embers and bones? He saw a three way spiral bleeding. He saw a tree burning and lilies wilting. He saw a knife, the blade plunging downwards. I decided to try myself. I’m a herbalist, but sometimes visions will come to me with the right concoction. I took a special potion to open my eyes. Do you know what I saw?” She brusquely shoves the parchment into Yennefer’s hands.

Yennefer sees the crooked three-way spiral. She sees a burning tree with dying flowers at its base. And she sees a knife, the blade pointed downwards.

“In my vision, I saw three symbols. A bleeding spiral. The burning tree and dying flowers. Don’t you see what this means?” She points forcefully at the symbols. “The spiral is the Ladies. Bleeding – meaning they’re dead. The symbol of Velen is split between a tree and the Temerian lilies. So my vision shows Velen dying. You’re a sorceress. Put it together.”

“What about the knife?” Yennefer asks. “What does the knife mean?”

At her question, Jemima’s face goes pale again. She looks away uncomfortably, hands clenched. She hesitates for a long time.

“…We didn’t want to believe it. Each village saw the same message, but none of us wanted to believe it. So, the villages across Velen all sent a representative to a summit in the forests, in the north-west of Downwarren. Everyone sent their elder, leader, herbalist, cunning woman, or whoever was fit enough to survive a trek through the swamps – like Mulbrydale, they sent their logger to go. I was Newmoor’s representative.”

Again, for a long time, she remains silent. “…I remember it clearer than anything. We gathered round a fire. The pellar cast some spell into the flames. Waited to see what answered us. And…he appeared. He-Who-Listened.”

The mysterious man Ameer mentioned. “Who is that?”

“None know his true name; that’s been lost to time. In fact, not many know much about him at all – it was a very old story.” Her brow furrows in thought. “I told you about She-Who-Knows. About how she was the Ladies’ mother, how she slipped into madness and shared her madness with all of Velen till they feared extinction. That’s what my granny told me, but it turns out there’s more to the story than that.”

“Oh?”

“The Crones tried to stop her, but their mother was a wily one, not easily tricked. Each trap they laid failed, until a brave young man she had kidnapped managed to trick their mother into revealing her weakness to him. He listened to her words – as goes his name – and told that weakness to the Ladies. Thanks to him, they were able to figure out how to stop their mother once and for all.”

“I’ve never heard of this story before.” Yennefer frowns.

“That’s because the time when She-Who-Knows ruled Velen was a terrible time of death and blood. Stories aren’t oft repeated. Even I didn’t know the full story about He-Who-Listened until…until I saw him myself. When we looked into the flames, he came before us. A tall, handsome man with hair the colour of the fire itself. And he spoke to us. He told us his story, from the time of She-Who-Knows. And…” Again, she falls silent. “…He told us that, without the Ladies, Velen is dying. Nothing can be done to save it.”

“The bleeding crooked spiral, and the burning tree.” Yennefer repeats the symbols.

“Exactly. And then he told us…only one thing could be done to save it. It would come at immense cost to us, but it would be for the good of Velen.”

“Is this what the dagger represents?”

“I assume so, but I don’t know for certain what it actually means. He-Who-Listened told us that, if we wanted to know how to save Velen, we must first prove our loyalty to the Ladies, as we have since scorned their love by wavering from loyalty. But myself, the other villages of Greyrocks, the folk from Crowsperch, the Mire, Mudsplough and Spitfire Bluff, we wanted nothing to do with it. We haven’t yet been affected by this blight, and we want no more involvement with the Ladies. So we left, rather than ‘prove our loyalty’.”

“Why?”

Jemima’s calloused hands clench, scrunching up her skirt. “We’ve had enough. Of the Ladies. Of their prices. We’ve had enough. When the blight comes for our lands, we’ll just leave. Because we don’t want anything more to do with them.”

“Because you’re ashamed?”

“I told you, an outsider like you wouldn’t understand what we went through. Why we needed the Ladies –”

“But now you’ve had a taste of life without their tyranny.” Yennefer interrupts. “Without the need to lose your ears, your children, or be subject to their curses. Greyrocks is thriving – this village in particular. Things are fine – great, in fact – without the Ladies. And that makes you even more ashamed of what you did when they were alive.”

Jemima stares down at the floor. She whispers. “If the folk down south heard me say this, they’d accuse me of heresy, but…a part of me was relieved when the Ladies died. No, not relieved. _Glad_. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Not really. Those three didn’t deserve the love they were given.” Yennefer says curtly.

Jemima frowns. “True, we may be ashamed and bitter. True, we are counting our losses and giving up on this land. True, we want nothing more to do with their magic and trickery. But that doesn’t change the reality that Velen will perish without those three sisters. A terrible fact, but a fact all the same.”

This isn’t right.

Yennefer knows for a fact that Ciri only killed two of the Crones. Weavess escaped, stealing Vesemir’s medallion in the process. Ciri would not be mistaken; Weavess lives.

Why does this woman – why do the people of Velen – think otherwise?

Or rather, why is the Crone keeping herself hidden?

Jemima said that the people of Crookback Bog have journeyed several times to the orphanage, leaving gifts behind in reverence of their dead Ladies. Witold said the same thing. Yet she has shown herself to none of them – only Tye, a non-worshipper who immediately left Velen, has seen her at all in these past four years. But if Weavess still has followers in Crookback Bog, why is she hiding? Yennefer thought the Crones craved power. Wouldn’t Weavess hate the idea of her followers believing her dead? Why has she been lying dormant, when her worshippers have been cutting off their own ears in desperation for her to return? If she returned, they would do anything – give anything – for her help once more. Just like they have done for so many years, even giving their own children to the Ladies. But she’s hidden away, rebuffing their offerings and letting them believe she’s dead. Now, except for the folk of Crookback Bog, all of Velen have moved on, abandoned this vile cult. The people of Greyrocks, like Jemima, are even going as far to say that the Crones never existed in the first place. Of course they have, if they truly believe the Crone is dead.

This makes no sense. As far as Yennefer can see, pretending to be dead has only caused harm to the Crone’s reputation. People are abandoning her thanks to her ‘death’.

What has she gained from this?

Or…what does she stand to gain?

The Crone knows that Yennefer and her party are here. The leshen, the drowners and water hags…She definitely knows. That was a warning to them. If they go to the swamps, no doubt her warning will turn to more violence. Even if they get to the orphanage, the Crone probably won’t appear. Ciri killed her sisters, so she won’t be foolish enough to reveal herself to a sorceress and a higher vampire.

Yennefer massages her temples.

Just what exactly is the Crone planning?

Yennefer’s certain she won’t like the answer.

Unfortunately, she gleans no more information from Jemima, and leaves the herbalist’s house feeling even more dejected and confused than before. The air feels heavier and colder. Each shadow seems more frightening, the creaking of branches more ominous, the churning river angrier and wilder. Though the darker clouds have failed to conceal the moon, it somehow seems dimmer and further away than before.

Such a short time ago, Yennefer walked along these paths with grim determination. Now, she just feels utter confusion, and a growing sense of dread. Nothing about the Crone seems to be adding up. Finding her feels like a very distant, impossible task now. It doesn’t help that Yennefer knows so little about the Crones from an objective, academic viewpoint. Most of her knowledge has come from the mouths of no doubt biased villagers. Well, Geralt knows plenty more about them than she does. Perhaps she should ask him –

The realisation knocks the breath out of her. A savage, cold reminder. For one blissful second, she forgot. In the foggy midst of trying to thread together all the stray, confusing information about the Crone, she forgot.

Geralt isn’t here. Her partner, her closest confident, her lover. He’s not here. This is her new normal. His absence, painful and terrible, is one that nonetheless she was growing accustomed to. Over time, the grief was beginning to become…not less sharp or wrenching, but rather more standard. Yennefer was becoming more accustomed to it, becoming more skilled at blocking it from her mind and focusing on the tasks at hand.

Yet, for one second, she slipped. The Crone stole her focus. And she forgot that she cannot ask Geralt about the Crone, about his experiences or opinion with this awful beast.

Because she forgot Geralt is not here anymore.

And now, she feels the terrible grief all over again.

When she looks to her right, instead of that beloved, weathered face with hair like snow and eyes like amber, she sees a youthful face with a shock of red hair. Nothing new about this. Geralt has been gone for weeks, and she walked here with Shani already. But somehow, it feels as if Yennefer is discovering all this information for the first time again. Her own mind has tricked her. Betrayed her. And she must pay in feelings of grief all over again.

It must show on her face. Shani looks concerned. “Are you all right?”

Yennefer quickly averts her gaze. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just…concerned about our task. Somehow, I’m more confused than when we set off.”

It’s all she can do to make the lie believable. To hide her true feelings. So she’s relieved when the inn comes back into sight.

Yet, the closer she gets – the more she hears the cheery voices from inside – the heavier Yennefer’s footsteps seem to become. And when they finally arrive by the door, she suddenly finds herself reluctant to go in.

“Is something wrong?” Shani asks when Yennefer hesitates by the door.

“…You go in. I just want to clear my mind for a moment. The fresh air helps me to think better, and I’ll need all my wits about me to figure out what the Crone is planning.” Yennefer explains.

Though her excuse is somewhat flimsy, Shani does not know Yennefer well enough to discern the lie or the true reason behind her decision. If it had been Regis or Ameer, they would’ve been far more cognisant of her turmoil. Perhaps that is why she doesn’t want to go inside, Yennefer realises.

“Be careful not to stay out too long.” Shani calls back before she steps inside. “You might catch a cold – or pneumonia, knowing Velen.”

Yennefer smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.” That smile vanishes as soon as Shani is out of sight. Cold, tight grief that somehow manages to be terribly familiar, and yet newly raw, grips Yenenfer’s heart with icy talons.

Velen is frightening. The Crone is frightening. At least Novigrad was safe from the unpredictable wilds. At least the crime and politics were comfortably within the realm of Yennefer’s expertise. And, though a higher vampire is a dangerous foe, at least Gwenllian could be reasoned with.

None of this applies here. None of it. A hostile land. An even more hostile foe. And Yennefer feels woefully unprepared for all of it.

Now, of all times, is the worst time to be distracted by grief and heartache and the simple, terrible feeling of missing Geralt. Yet now, she feels it more acutely for the first time since Skellige.

She wants him here beside her. So she can confide in him, share her worries and plans with the one she trusts the most. So she can feel his warmth. His skin. So she can hear his voice. So she can hold him. Be held by him.

But he’s not here. And she feels so, so alone.

Yennefer looks up at the dim, distant moon. The last time she saw a full moon, Geralt was still with her. Ameer always loved the moon – described how any scenery had the possibility to ‘enchant it’, and be made beautiful with its glow. But when Yennefer looks up, she just sees yet another reminder of Geralt’s absence. A mocking, cruel reminder.

But she looks up anyway. Tilting her head upwards allows her to more easily fight back her tears.

“One minute.” She says to herself. “One minute to feel bad. Then stop wasting time and focus on getting him back.”

So, Yennefer allows herself that one single minute of grief. Staring at the moon, missing him with all her heart.

But she doesn’t cry. She refuses to cry.

And when that minute is up, she sighs deeply, steels her heart, strengthens her resolve.

Then she walks back into the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> \- You're safe, thank goodness. I was so worried. Are you hurt?  
> \- A little scratched up, but I'll be fine.  
> Also, in case you were wondering:  
> Shani and Olgierd never actually meet in Hearts of Stone. Shani is only present in the sewers, for the Dead Man's Party quest, and then when she helps you sneak into Oxenfurt Academy. However, she did actually study him and his family during university, which is why she knows of him and where his house is in Dead Man's Party.  
> The reason Shani knows about Regis being a vampire is because of a scene in the first witcher game - she, Geralt, Dandelion and Zoltan are all together for a house party. Geralt is talking about vampires, very incorrectly, and Dandelion basically fact checks him. When Geralt asks how he knows so much about vampires, especially Higher Vampires, Dandelion explains that their best friend Regis, who is presumed dead at this point, was a Higher Vampire. Of course, this is all said while Shani is very much present and listening haha. Damn it Dandelion!


	7. Tusail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Hope you're all doing well!  
> The introduction, and the chapter itself, will have spoilers for A Season of Storms/the Fox Children comic. Also, there will be other book spoilers in the chapter too.  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

_“-You’re healed…You brought her back to life? No, impossible. She was alive back there on the boat. Alive. Just playing dead._

_-Yes, wise witcher. Yes, Geralt. My daughter played dead. We could do a great deal, once! Illusions of magic isles, dragons dancing in the sky, visions of mighty armies nearing city walls…once, long ago. As the world has changed, our powers have waned…and our numbers have dwindled. We are more “fox” than “vulpess” now. Yet even the smallest, youngest among us can fool your primitive human senses._

_-…First time in my life I’m glad someone deceived me._

_-You stood against me. But you are not my foe. For you also stood against the brutality and stupidity of men. You felt and thought where they but feared and hated. And as your prize, you may touch my face._

_Come, witcher. Touch the oldest of worlds. Touch the eldest of secrets. Touch…truth. And then, return to your life, go back downstairs, tip flagons of wine with the dwarf and kiss what women will allow it. But forever remember, Geralt. Remember. Illusion. All is an illusion.” – The final conversation between Geralt and a Fox Mother._

Dulla departs that morning.

The sun is weak and obscured in a sky of grey clouds as mist rolls over the village. The grey river moves slowly and gently, with herons fishing among the reeds. Occasionally, Regis sees a flicker of movement beneath the currents. Trout and stickleback and catfish. The reeds groan and bend as some rodent or amphibian travels through them and slips, unseen, into the water, the only clue to their presence being a gentle splash. But otherwise, most of the water is entirely out of Regis’s view. The river is too deep, and murky with mud and sediment. He cannot tell what lurks at the river bed. And though he feels at ease, Regis cannot trust his own instincts anymore. For all he knows, some terrible monster working for the Crone could be hidden at the bottom, ready to sink the boats that sail above it. And Regis won’t know until it’s too late.

But right now, the river _seems_ quiet. Most other birds have gone, migrated south to warmer weather. No ducks, no geese or swans. Regis can only hear the caw of ravens and crows, drowning out whatever songbirds remain in this region. Tatanu perches nervously on his shoulder. Just like before, the other ravens have only brought warnings and advised against him travelling into Crookback Bog.

_You don’t have to come with me, you know._ Regis tells him. _If you’re scared._

_No. I brave raven. I travel with vampire friend._ Tatanu replies proudly. Though he does sound scared.

Dulla stands on the docks as Witold loads his cargo onto one of the more impressively sized boats. Ameer stands with him on the docks, looking downhearted. He’s wearing his own clothes again, which have been washed and dried of the drowner blood from yesterday.

Dulla smiles and slaps him on the shoulder. “Do not be sad, Ameer. I am sure we will see each other soon.”

Ameer nods melancholically. “I know. I am sure you are right. But it has been such a pleasure seeing someone from Ofier after so long, so I will miss you.”

Dulla smiles sympathetically. “I understand well – these lands are strange and so unlike home. But this is not a permanent goodbye, my friend.” He hesitates. “You know, my path takes me to Lettina, the old Nilfgaardian barracks in the south of this region, before I begin travelling to Toussaint. I will stay there for a few days, to ensure everything is ready for my journey – it is a very long one, after all! If you have time to take out of your own journey, please, come visit me again.”

Ameer smiles. “I would like that. I will try.”

Witold walks down the gangplank, brushing his hands together. “Cargo’s all done, and Babiyetza’s on board too.”

“Thank you.” Dulla shakes his hand heartily. “You take care of yourself now, Witold. I would very much like to see you again, and not have you be eaten by some monster.”

“I’ll try my best.” Witold grins. “And make sure to stay safe yourself. You don’t have much luck with long journeys, do you?”

“You raise a valid point! Of course, I doubt I would have even made it this far if not for my wonderful travelling companions.” He looks to Regis and Yennefer. “It was wonderful to meet you. I felt much safer travelling with you. I would be delighted to meet you again one day – whether in Novigrad or in Lettina.”

Regis shakes his hand warmly. “Likewise. It’s been a pleasure.”

“If we don’t see you, we hope your journey to Toussaint goes well.” Yennefer looks almost wistful. Ah, Toussaint is where she now lives, isn’t it?

“Thank you. And may the heavens keep you safe until we meet again.”

Regis, Yennefer and Witold all retreat, allowing Ameer and Dulla to say a more private farewell.

“I’ll be sorting the horses for the journey.” Witold tells them, glancing back at Ameer. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you.” Regis looks over at Dulla and Ameer. He can hear them talking in Ofieri. It’s a language Regis doesn’t know, so their words remain unknown to him, but he can tell from their tone that it’s a bittersweet farewell.

Dulla shakes his hand warmly, then embraces him. “Hza saeidaan fi rihlatik ya sidyqi. Min fadlik, 'abaq amnana, mahma hadutha. 'atamanaa 'an 'arak maratan 'akhraa. Kan waqtina meana qsyrana jdana.”

Ameer smiles sadly. “Sa'ubdhul qusaraa jahdi. 'awad muqabalatik maratan 'ukhraa, eindama natruk akhyrana hadhih almustanqaeat alrahibati. Wa'iidha lm naltaqi, 'atamanaa 'an tamdi rihlatuk ealaa ma yaram ya, Dulla.”

“Qad tuhafiz alsamawat ealaa salamatik hataa naltaqi maratan 'ukhraa.”

“Waqad turshadk alturuq 'iilaya bisareatin.”

Waving farewell to the rest of the party, Dulla boards the ship. Ameer watches from the docks as the ship travels down the river, parting the mist at its bow. He watches until it sails around a meander and out of sight, hidden by the foliage growing on the banks.

“You think he’ll be all right? He became quite fond of Dulla, didn’t he?” Regis whispers to Yennefer.

Yennefer wraps her coat more tightly around herself. “He did. I don’t blame him for that; it’s been so long since he’s seen anyone from Ofier. And whatever happened there that led to his identity being discovered, Dulla doesn’t seem to know about it. That must be an immense relief to him.”

Slowly, Ameer walks back from the docks, moving awkwardly thanks to his crutches. He’s been healing his foot gradually, so as not to tire himself, and to save his magic for emergencies. He looks back at the docks one last time, before shaking himself and focusing his attention on Regis and Yennefer.

“Are we ready? Shall we go?” He asks.

“Yes. The sooner we get all this over with, the better.” Yennefer says sullenly.

Never have truer words been spoken, Regis thinks. The horrible dread in the pit of his stomach hasn’t lessened since yesterday. He feels a wave of anticipatory urgency, the need to confront this Crone and leave Velen as soon as possible.

They walk through the village, where farmers and workers stare after Ameer in surprise. No one approaches them until they pass the inn where they stayed. Outside, the witcher from the School of the Griffin – Oskar – is hobbling over on his own wooden crutches, calling over to them.

“Hey! Are you leaving?”

“Yes, we were planning to depart shortly. Can we help you?” Regis asks.

“Are you heading south? Into Crookback Bog?”

“We are.”

“Well, I don’t have much to repay you with for saving me – I know, you said I don’t need to, but I want to. Since I have no coin, I’ll give you these instead.” He passes Regis a bag filled with three spherical shaped objects. “If you happen to run into that leshen again, use these. Dragon’s Dream. Leshens hate fire. These are what stopped the monster from slaughtering me, gave me a chance to get away.” He studies Regis for a moment. “You’re _really_ going into Crookback Bog?”

“Yes, we are.”

Oskar shakes his head. “I’d warn you not to, but it’s not really my place. You were the one to save my ass, after all. But be careful. I’ve heard lots of stories from the villages up north, about their folk going down into the swamps for trade or meetings and never returning. And I’ve heard people say there’s…something wrong with the air down there, in the southern swamps.”

“Something wrong with the air?” Regis repeats.

“Can’t know for sure, but apparently the ‘air gives you nightmares’. Most times, I’d dismiss it as superstition. But having come here myself…I’m inclined to believe it now.”

Regis doesn’t argue with him there. “Thank you. We’ll make sure to be careful. What are you going to do now? You can’t exactly take on contracts while you’re still healing.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Oskar says grimly. “I’m gonna return to my School, my home Kaer Seren. What’s left of it, anyway. I was on the way there when I made the mistake of stopping here for a bit of coin. No time for diversions now if I want to make it before winter comes.”

Ameer steps forwards, and gives him some coins. “To help you with your journey.” When Oskar tries to protest, he holds up his hand. “It is unpleasant being far from home. I know this. Please, accept it.”

“Thank you.” Oskar pockets the money. “Not often that folk are kind to witchers. Seems I was very lucky to run into you. If you find my swords anywhere in Crookback Bog, keep them. Use them, sell them, do whatever you want.” After his encounter with the leshen, no doubt he won’t be searching around to retrieve them himself. “Good luck, all of you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.” Regis smiles. “And good luck on the Path.”

At the edge, where the village leads back to the open forests, Zoltan has readied the horses. Witold is busily fastening supplies onto the saddles, checking that the ropes and buckles hold strong. Sitting on her own chestnut mare is Shani. She’s facing the open expanse of fields uncertainly, chewing her bottom lip.

“You haven’t set off?” Regis calls to her. She starts, turning her horse around to face them.

“You haven’t, either.” She points out.

“We’ve a long and dangerous journey ahead of us. It’d be foolish not to prepare to the absolute thoroughness before we set off.”

Shani nods knowingly. “That’s a good point.” She looks back at the fields. “I’m just about to set off myself. I’ve got a long ride ahead of me, what with the Oxenfurt harbours still being closed.”

“I thought you were in a rush?” He points out.

“Well, I was. But now I’ve heard definitive news that the protests in Oxenfurt are over. They’ve been resolved by Dandelion, just like you guessed last night, Yennefer.”

Regis smiles. “He can be very persuasive at times. And charming, too. I’m not surprised.”

However, Shani doesn’t share this relief. She sighs heavily. “I really should go back home. But…It just feels wrong.”

“Wrong?” Regis frowns. “How so, my dear?”

“I mean, there’s just…more I could be doing. I’ve travelled along the banks of Velen, and it’s really bad.” She shakes her head. “All the crops are dying and rotting, so many people are sick – it just feels wrong to abandon them.”

“Then why don’t you come with us?”

The voice belongs to Yennefer. Regis turns to her, surprised at the sudden suggestion. It took her a lot of thoughtful deliberation to decide to hire Witold – and even now, she’s clearly still suspicious of him. Yet she says this no hesitation in her voice.

Shani frowns. “Come with you?”

“Why not? We’ll be travelling south to the swamps, and we’re likely to pass villages on the way. You can provide treatment wherever we pass. We can protect you as you travel.”

“I mean…that would be great.” Shani looks surprised. “What do you want in return? I don’t have much money on me.”

“No, not money. The people of this land like and trust you. You’re a doctor, and a pretty one at that.” Yennefer’s gaze becomes serious. “Jemima wouldn’t have opened up to me yesterday had you not been there to convince her, and I imagine the people here will only become more secretive as we travel south. I think you could be very useful for our investigations.”

Shani smiles. “I’d be more than happy to help. Though I don’t think I’ll be much use to you in the swamps – I’m no fighter.”

“That’s fine. We were planning on stopping off at Downwarren first; Ameer will be staying there while we continue into the swamps. Why don’t you stay with him?”

“That sounds like a good arrangement.” Shani smiles, relieved. “To be honest, it’ll be good to have some company. I haven’t liked being alone in the swamps.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” And at least Ameer won’t be alone at Downwarren anymore while he waits for Dandelion to arrive. Regis was beginning to get nervous about leaving Ameer there by himself, if the folk down there are as strange as they’ve been told. When he glances at Yennefer’s face, sees the satisfied glint to her eye, Regis realises that this was her goal as well. Ever since Novigrad, she’s been fretting about Ameer’s safety constantly. No wonder. His life, her life and Geralt’s life hang in the balance.

“Right. We’re almost ready to go. Gather round, everyone.” Witold calls.

They all oblige, jittery with the nervous anticipation of their journey, trying to force images of leshens out of their minds. They look upon Witold expectantly. He may be a stranger, and a very odd one at that, but he’s their best bet for reaching the orphanage right now. It’s almost funny, in some twisted way. Witold doesn’t realise his own importance in saving Geralt right now. He has no idea that Geralt’s life is even in danger, let alone that Geralt’s only hope for survival depends on them reaching the orphanage.

“I’ve planned out the best path for us to take to get to the swamps.” He announces. “It’s a long journey, but we can’t afford to take any shortcuts. It’s too dangerous.”

Yennefer nods slowly, and Regis can tell she’s biting back her impatience. The longer it takes for them to reach the Crone, the longer Tye has to escape. But Witold is right. They can’t take any chances. It won’t matter where Tye is if their haste kills them.

“Since we’re still in Greyrocks, our passage should be quiet. But that doesn’t mean we can let our guard down. Even here, we might easily come across a monster – and after yesterday, I’m sure none of you want to take any chances.”

No one disagrees.

“As for the travelling arrangements,” he pats his mare’s neck, “we’ll be travelling two horses abreast in a line. Single file is too dangerous in Velen – I tried it once, and it’s easier for monsters to try and single out individual riders. I’ll lead us, since I know the path and I’m good at spotting the first signs of a monster ambush. Whoever’s the strongest out of all of you should go last; the monsters here are cowardly, and they like to sneak up from behind.”

“I’ll go last.” Regis speaks up.

Witold stares at him, utterly confused. “…I’m sorry, are you sure you want to go last? It’s the most dangerous place –”

“He can go last.” Yennefer interjects. “He’s a very powerful mage. If the best fighter needs to go last, then it should be him.”

No one argues against her; Ameer, Zoltan and Shani all know that Regis is a vampire. Witold looks incredulously between all of them before looking Regis up and down, eyebrow raised in doubt. Regis can imagine his thoughts: this elderly man who looks like he might die of old age any second is our best fighter?

“…Fine. If you say so.” Witold turns to Shani. “I’m guessing you’re not a fighter?”

“That’s right. Sorry.”

“Then you should in the middle, with one of the mages alongside you.”

“I will.” Yennefer decides. “I should be more than capable of protecting us both, if a monster does decide to attack. Ameer, you should ride in the front. If needs be, you can hide us from monsters with illusions.”

It’s not just that, though. This is the safest place for the medallion. Witold knows the region better than any of them, and will be able to notice attacks and traps long before they can. If they do get ambushed from the front, Witold will most likely be the first to know, which gives Ameer extra time to hide himself with his illusions. And should Witold miss anything, Ameer – with his superior sense of smell and hearing – can act as a safety net.

Ameer hesitates, but he acquiesces to Yennefer’s request. “All right.” He glances in the direction of the river. “Hopefully, it will not come to that.”

“This means Zoltan will be riding in the back as well. Is that all right?” Witold asks.

“No problem. I’ve got plenty of combat experience.” He doesn’t say it, but he probably feels safer riding next to Regis.

“Great. In Greyrocks, we have a good advantage of the central road. It’ll take us out of Newmoor and west towards the bridge, nice and easy. But once we set foot into Crookback Bog proper, we don’t get that advantage anymore. What roads do exist are unreliable, and often set upon by monsters. So, think of this as a test run for Crookback Bog. Stay following me, and do not stray from the path, no matter what. Now, when we’re riding, we don’t wanna be shouting to each other, especially when we reach Crookback Bog. No point drawing the attention of monsters to us. I’ve got a few hand signals I use instead – pass them down the procession if you see me use them.” He holds up his hand in a fist. “That’s stop.” He puts up a thumb and jerks it backwards. “That’s back up.” He cuts the air with his hand. “And that’s, ‘get your weapons ready’. Any questions?”

No one speaks up, so Witold mounts his horse and leads it to the front. “We’re all set, then. Let’s make the most of the light while we can.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the rest of the group follows suit. Regis mounts his mule and brings it around to the back of the procession with Zoltan, positioning it behind Yennefer and Shani's. Ameer brings his mare up alongside Witold's, double checking that his bow and quiver are secure.

Witold turns back to look at the procession. “Let’s be off. Stay alert, and whatever you do, always stay behind me.”

Then he kicks his horse, and begins riding along the track. The rest of the group rides after him, following this strange guide back into the swampy wilds of Velen, and away from the safely nestled haven of Newmoor.

Despite Witold’s reassurance that Greyrocks will be far safer than Crookback Bog, the entire group remains quietly tense as they ride along the central road. All expect a monster to jump out at any second, including Regis himself, so the procession remains sombre. In the front, Ameer and Witold are both staying quiet – perhaps not out of awkwardness, since they seemed to have resolved matters yesterday, but out of a need to concentrate intensely on the environment around them instead. Yennefer and Shani barely speak, either. Both are more focused on the forest running alongside them, watching out for monsters. The only lapse in silence is awkward small talk.

“So, how is Geralt?” Shani asks.

“He’s doing well.” Yennefer says with forced cheeriness in her voice. His soul trapped in a medallion, and his body frozen in a hunk of ice. Doing well indeed, Regis thinks bitterly.

“That’s good. The last I saw him, he’d gotten himself into a bit of a predicament.” Shani remembers. “I met him in the sewers, hunting a monster that was poisoning the Oxenfurt water supply and killing people. We got separated, and then he was roped up in this big adventure with some…unsavoury individuals.”

“Oh?” Yennefer sounds interested. Maybe she hasn’t heard this story before? Regis certainly hasn’t.

“Yes. It was all very strange. He had to get possessed by a ghost at my friend’s wedding, and then he had to break into Oxenfurt Academy to speak to a professor of black magic.”

“Hm. He does have a knack for getting himself caught up in all sorts of mayhem.” Yennefer muses.

“That’s true.” A branch cracks loudly somewhere inside the forest, making Shani jump. Nervously, she pulls her cloak more tightly around herself. “I’ve heard of so many horror stories around here, I’m half expecting a bear or some giant spider to come charging out.”

“Me too.” Yennefer says quietly, her hand automatically tracing the crystal at her neck. Then she squares her shoulders. “But even if they do, so what? I’ve taken down worse than bears and giant spiders. I defeated a giant crystal golem only a few days ago.”

“Wait.” Shani frowns. “The story about the giant crystal golem – that was _real_?”

“Oh yes. I should know – it almost bloody fell on me.”

Shani shakes her head in disbelief. “And here I thought it was just wildly misinterpreted rumours…Well, if you’ve managed a feat like that, then there’s nothing for us to be afraid of here.”

“Exactly.”

Regardless, they both continue to nervously watch the forest anyway, starting at each suspicious noise that sounds from the undergrowth.

Regis feels the same unease. He and Zoltan, positioned at supposedly the most dangerous part of the procession, are forever looking around themselves. Each creaking branch and splash of distant water seems so loud and ominous to Regis’s hypervigilant mind. Every now and then, Zoltan will automatically reach for his axe – only to realise the noise belonged to a fleeing rabbit, or a gaunt deer with spindly legs.

A shadow flies across them, and Tatanu swoops down to land on Regis’s shoulder. Zoltan jumps, reaching for his axe again until he sees the white feather, and sighs with relief.

_Message! Message for vampire friend!_ Tatanu reports happily.

_From who?_

_Flower vampire!_

Ah, Gwenllian. She received his message about magic not healing the wounds caused by that strange burning metal. _What did she say?_

Tatanu hesitates for a moment. _I not understand! Other ravens not understand!_

_What?_

_Flower vampire says ‘wellfuck!’. I not know what wellfuck is!_

Regis smiles. _Don’t concern yourself with it. Thank you for passing on the message._

Tatanu fluffs up his feathers proudly, and tugs on Regis’s earlobe affectionately. _I good raven! Vampire friend worried?_ _I watch! I fly high! Watch for vampire friend!_ He flaps his wings and takes off into the sky, circling high above them like a vulture watching a carcass. This makes Regis feel safer. Should something start to approach that Regis misses, Tatanu can warn them like he did at the river yesterday.

_He might miss details too_ , a doubtful and frightened voice speaks at the back of Regis’s mind. _He cannot see the hidden approach of leshens and foglets. He cannot see the trickery of the Crone._

“Feels wrong, doesn’t it?” Zoltan’s voice snaps him out of his thought. “Coming back along this path after yesterday.”

“It does.” They’re following the same route that Regis, Zoltan and Dulla used to escort the injured witcher to Newmoor. Only a day ago, Regis had his hands pushing down on Oskar’s gaping wounds, desperately trying to keep the life from spilling out of him. “Though at least we’re travelling along this route under very different circumstances.”

Zoltan nods. “That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I suppose.” His gaze seems distant as he watches Tatanu flying above them.

“You used to have a pet bird.” Regis remembers suddenly. “A parrot, yes?”

Zoltan grins at this. “Aye. Field Marshal Windbag. Great bird, real smart. Could say all sorts of stuff.”

“What happened to him?”

“I gave him to Percival.” Again, his gaze becomes distant. “That was a long time ago, though. Feels like a different lifetime…Sorry. Get all sentimental when I think about the past.”

Regis smiles sadly. “No need to apologise. I often feel the same way.”

The unspoken names of the hanse lingers in the air, dragging them down with soft, sad claws. When another noise from the undergrowth startles them, Regis is glad to go back to a silent state of hypervigilance.

For all their journey along the river, even as the mists fade back into the water, the sun remains hidden behind thick blankets of clouds. The dull light that filters through is detached, apathetic, and contains little warmth. Even at midday, barely any light passes through. Normally, Regis wouldn’t mind days like these. Even Higher Vampires, who are adapted to withstand sunlight as well as any human, still prefer cloudy skies over sunny days. But here, in Velen, the lack of sun just makes the land feel miserable. Bleak. Draining.

For the most part, the journey goes smoothly. Just like Witold said, Greyrocks is a relatively safe area of Velen. Their passage remains undisturbed by monsters or beasts, or even bandits. Their ride is slow and calmly paced compared to the mad rush to Newmoor yesterday. Soon, they pass the fateful spot where Oskar almost drowned, and Ameer along with him. The river is deceptively calm and gentle – almost a pretty scene, but spoiled by the rotting drowner corpses that still litter the area. The group moves on quickly.

However, they soon run into a complication.

The first bridge they pass, just outside of Newmoor, is a broken mess. The wooden planks are all torn up in the middle, and Regis can clearly hear the squabbling and screeching of drowners and rotfiends. Witold seems unbothered by this, passing it without a second thought. The next bridge they reach, much further down the river, past the site where Oskar and Ameer almost drowned, is perfectly intact and seems clear of any rotfiends, drowners or other monsters.

Yet the horses suddenly become agitated. They begin pulling on their reins, chewing their bits, eyes rolling in fear.

Instantly, Witold holds up his fist – the signal to stop. Quickly, the group follows suit, watching as Witold dismounts his horse. Taking the reins, he carefully tries to lead his horse forwards. However, the mare shakes her head and backs away, pawing the ground and whinnying loudly.

Witold looks over at the bridge again, eyes narrowed, silently scanning the river. The waters run smoothly underneath it, quiet and serene. He looks again at his horse and Ameer’s, both of them nervous and flighty.

“We’re stopping.” He announces to the group, leading his horse away from the river, over to a field cleared of crops. He stops at a safe distance, yet still keeping the bridge in clear sight.

Regis peers at the river. He can’t see or sense anything. Neither can he see any sign of monster presence – no tracks in the dirt, no clawed up grass or specks of blood.

“Why are we stopping?” Yennefer asks immediately.

“The horses don’t want to cross.” Witold takes the pack from his saddle and throws it to the ground. “We cross when they want to cross.”

Ahead of him, Regis sees Yennefer’s lips tighten in frustration. “Are you sure? Horses get spooked very easily, it could be –”

“We cross when they want to cross.” Witold repeats firmly.

Yennefer says nothing, face taut with impatience. Regis understands it all too well – the more time wasted, the more time Tye has to disappear.

But being hasty in this region could kill them. And after the close-call yesterday, they’d be fools to ignore Witold’s advice.

So, reluctantly, the group dismounts their steeds and bring them to the field. Tatanu settles on Regis’s shoulder, rubbing his feathered head against Regis’s cheek. He looks unsettled.

_What’s wrong?_

_Bad. Bad smell._

Witold is right, then. Crossing now would be a fool’s errand.

“What do we do now?” Regis asks, calmly stroking Tatanu’s breast with his finger. “Is there another route we can take?”

“No. We wait.” Witold says simply.

“We wait?” Regis bites back his own frustration.

“When the horses calm, we can cross. In the meantime, we can rest.”

“How long will it take?”

“As long as it needs to.” Witold hammers a wooden peg into the ground and ties his mare’s reins to it. The horse still paws the ground, shaking its head and staring over at the river with wide eyes. “Get comfy. Once, it took my horse a whole day.”

Regis dearly hopes they won’t be waiting that long. Tying their steeds to the wooden peg, the group settles down at the clearing, trying to hide their irritation at this delay.

All except Ameer. Leaning on his crutches, he stares off into the fields. His eyes are wide in surprise. Regis follows his gaze – he doesn’t see anyone there.

“Ameer? Are you going to sit down?” Regis calls.

Ameer doesn’t turn around. “In a minute. I just want to forage for food.”

Regis frowns. “Forage for food?”

Witold stands up. “It’s a good idea. We won’t be doing much foraging down in the swamps, so we should save our supplies for then. I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Ameer says quickly, an urgency and panic to his voice. “You should stay here. Guard the others, in case a monster tries to sneak up on them.”

“You’re not going by yourself.” Yennefer begins tiredly, but Ameer shakes his head.

“Regis can come with me.” He catches her gaze. Something about the look in his eyes must communicate a message, for she relents and nods.

“Fine. Don’t go far.”

“We will not. Light a fire – we will do some foraging, and bring back something to eat.” With that, he begins limping towards the empty patch of fields. Hesitantly, Regis follows him, quickly catching up to his pace.

“What is it?” He whispers. “Is something wrong?”

“We need to speak to someone.”

“Who? And why us?”

“You are a vampire. A fellow monster, if you excuse the negative connotations. She will tolerate your presence alongside mine, but no one else.”

Regis frowns and opens his mouth to ask a question, but soon realises he doesn’t need to. He simply blinks, and suddenly there they stand.

A feminine figure, wearing a white dress, stands ahead of them by the outskirts of a forest. Her head isn’t human, or elven. Instead, a dark red fox face looks upon them with piercing green eyes. A Fox Mother. Next to her, a young elf woman holds her hand. Slighter in size and figure, with a youthful face. Flowers decorate her long ginger hair, and she looks between the Fox Mother reassuringly, and Regis nervously. A Fox Child. A cub who is almost fully grown, but a cub all the same.

Regis knows very well the perils of getting too close to a Fox Child, or of angering her Mother. He glances at Ameer, who looks more confused than concerned. He’ll just have to trust Ameer not to lead him into danger.

The Fox Mother glances at Regis, showing not the slightest bit of unease.

“You have brought a vampire with you?” The Fox Mother asks sharply in Common.

“He is a friend, and he means no harm.” Ameer says quickly. “He has no quarrel with our species.”

However, the Fox Mother still frowns, displeased. Regis’s unease grows thick and coarse. “I wanted a private conversation with you, and yet you give me an audience with three?”

“Three?” Ameer tilts his head in confusion.

The Fox Mother points at Ameer’s chest. “You cannot hide it from me, even if you shove it beneath your clothes. I see the soul hanging around your neck.”

“You can see Geralt?” Regis asks without thinking, so great is his surprise.

The Fox Mother stares at him for a moment. “Geralt?” She repeats. “The white-haired witcher?”

Regis is beginning to regret having spoken. “…You know him?”

“Oh, yes.” The Fox Mother smiles.

And suddenly, she’s not there anymore. A man with long white hair and yellow eyes, two sword scabbards strapped to the back, stands in her place.

Instantly, Regis feels a terrible stabbing sensation in his chest, as if he’s been run through with a pitchfork. An icy wave of shock washes over him, and he swallows painfully, throat closing up.

The Fox Mother, disguised as Geralt, walks closer to him. “Is he your friend, vampire?”

“Hey.” Ameer watches with wide eyes, staring at the Fox Mother in horror. “What are you _doing_?”

The Fox Mother turns her head sharply towards him. Ameer winces. His vulpine features are showing – ears flat back, eyes trapped by her gaze. He whines quietly as the Fox Mother glares at him, her eyes burning with power, but he does not look away, even as the sweat beads on his brow.

Clearly, the Fox Mother outranks him in authority, and outmatches his powers easily – if they were to fight, she’d most likely be the victor.

“He means no harm.” Ameer says regardless, voice low and careful. “He will not –”

“Why should I trust your judgement? When you travel with humans?” The Fox Mother asks disdainfully. Her voice sounds identical to Geralt’s.

Regis quickly decides to speak up. It takes a tremendous effort to form the words, fighting against the grief in his throat, and even then his voice is far quieter than he wanted. “Ameer, it’s fine. Don’t worry.” He looks over at Ameer, hoping his face is steady. Ameer flashes him a warning glance. _Be careful_.

“Oh?” The Fox Mother speaks, amusement in her voice. “It’s fine?”

Regis doesn’t look her in the eyes. “Yes.”

He feels a sharp hand grab his face with surprising strength. The Fox Mother jerks his lowered head upwards to match hers. Looking into those yellow eyes that he misses so immensely is now unavoidable.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” She asks, mockingly. “Am I making you angry?”

This is a test, Regis realises. She’s trying to goad him deliberately, to see what he’ll do. How he’ll react – in calmness, or anger. She wants to know if he’s a threat. And if he is, then she’ll dispose of him.

Swallowing, he looks calmly at the weathered face in front of him that he cares for so much. He pushes down his distress, and steadies himself. For all he knows, the Fox Mother probably isn’t even in front of him here – she wouldn’t risk getting so close.

So, he stays calm. “No. Do as you wish.”

The Fox Mother, with Geralt’s grizzled glare, studies him for a while. Watching, waiting. Her nails are sharp against his cheek. He ignores it, shows no discomfort on his face. At long last, she nods, and steps back. The disguise melts away, showing the sharp-faced aguara once more.

“…Fine. I will _tolerate_ his presence.” She says, somewhat testily. Regis tries not to sigh in relief.

“Was that really necessary?” Ameer demands.

The Fox Mother doesn’t even blink. “Yes, it was. Besides, I’ve always wondered what would make a vampire squirm. Now I know.”

Ameer frowns, eyes narrowed. “Regis, how about you start gathering food?” He suggests – a not-so-subtle hint to keep his mouth shut and gaze averted from this conversation.

“Yes. I’ll do that.” Regis kneels down by the undergrowth at the forest's edge, searching for edible plants. The Fox Child watches him curiously, then kneels down next to him.

“What are you doing?” She asks. Her voice is light and inquisitive.

“Looking for food. Berries, nuts, mushrooms.” He answers, hoping his voice doesn’t give away his nervousness. The Fox Mother is watching him with beady eyes.

“I’ll help you. I’m good at foraging.” She suggests happily.

Regis smiles thinly. “That would be very kind of you.”

When the Fox Mother drags her gaze away, convinced that he won’t harm her daughter, he tries not to sigh in relief. Befriending Ameer has lowered his guard against this most elusive race. Lulled into a false sense of security, knowing that Ameer would never deliberately cause him harm, Regis had almost forgotten the twisted mischief and vengeful ways of aguaras. He knows so little about them – he’s learnt more from Ameer than he had originally ever known about them, yet he is still so ignorant to many of their secrets. What he does know, though, is that if a vulpess decided to hold a grudge against him, Regis would never live in peace again.

“Why have you beckoned me over?” Ameer asks, his own voice cautious and measured. This must be the first northern Fox Mother he’s met.

“I was curious.” Regis blinks, and suddenly the fox face is replaced with that of a sharp faced woman. Her long red hair is tangled and braided. “About many things.”

She then begins speaking in a language that Regis has never heard before, and doesn’t understand. For some reason, it makes his hairs stand on end, and a shiver runs down his spine. The language of vulpesses. There seem to be some elvish lilts, an occasional similar word that Regis can make out – mistake, and gender, and weak. But the rest of it is entirely unknown to Regis. And that is very unusual for him. He knows many languages, having had much time to learn them, but the linguistic structure and lexicon he hears now is utterly alien to his ears. It unsettles him, feeling so ignorant.

He can guess what they’re talking about from the snatches he could understand – about how Ameer’s mother made a mistake, how he isn’t a true Fox Mother – but he decides against trying to decipher their conversation. He is an unwelcome stranger here, and the vulpess is barely tolerating his presence. Attempting to eavesdrop would be a huge mistake.

So he focuses on foraging instead. He plucks dandelion leaves from the ground, small crab apples from a slightly withered tree, and harvests some wood mushrooms from the bark of a young oak tree. The undergrowth rustles, and the small, red head of a fox pokes out. It jumps out the brambles, sits with its tail tucked neatly around itself, and watches Regis with curious, wide eyes. Somehow, Regis has a feeling this fox is watching over to two of them on request of the Fox Mother.

At the sight of the fox, the Cub rolls her eyes, though she gives it a quick stroke on the head. “Forgive my Mother.” The Cub says, picking some sorrel. “She has never spoken with a vampire properly before, so she’s nervous.”

Regis glances over at her fierce, stoic face. “I must say, she’s doing a splendid job of hiding it.”

This makes the Cub smile. She collects a handful of sweet chestnuts that have fallen among the leaves and pours them into his palm. “These are my favourite. They taste good when you put them over fire. My Mother and I like to have this.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates. “How long have you lived with your Mother?”

“Many years.” She says vaguely. “She takes very good care of me.”

“That’s good to hear.” Regis says, his tone more awkward than he wanted. This was someone else’s child before the Fox mother spirited her away. He cannot help but think it.

Maybe that shows on his face. The Fox Child picks some late autumn crocuses and places them in her hair. “My Mother takes good care of me. Once, when I was very young, some men kidnapped me and tried to take me away. This is why she is so overprotective of me, I think. Those men were terrible. They wanted to sell me, and they locked me in their boat. It was very frightening.” Her face falls. “I had to pretend I was dead. They were going to throw me overboard, you know – but a kind witcher stopped them and helped return me to my mother.” A kind witcher…perhaps that was Geralt?

“What happened to the men?” Regis asks, though he already knows the answer.

“My Mother killed them, of course! She let the innocent ones go, but she would never have rested until the evil ones were dead. So you shouldn’t look at me with that worried face. I am happy with my Mother. She looks after me.”

“That’s good to know.” He forces a smile, and continues gathering food, collecting some blackberries into his hand. Most of the berries have been snatched away by birds, or feasted upon by insects, so he must fight through vicious brambles to reach them. The Cub helps by pushing aside the branches carefully.

“You’re a vampire.” The Cub states, picking some berries from the low-hanging branches. “I’ve never seen a vampire like you before. Vampires are bats. Do you eat insects?”

Why does it always come to this? “No, I certainly try to avoid that if I can.”

“What _do_ you eat, then?”

“Well, really, I don’t strictly need to eat.” Regis explains. “I can live without food. But when I do, I eat…what other humans eat, really.”

“What’s your favourite?”

“Hmm…I like fish soup.” It brings fond memories of his time with the hanse – of Cahir catching the impressively sized fish, of Geralt sulking in the corner, and Milva and Dandelion teasing him for it. “And yours are sweet chestnuts?”

“You remembered!” She looks him up and down with a smile. “…You seem to be very nice. Honestly, I was a little frightened when I saw you walking over. This is my first time meeting a vampire, you see. But you look just like a human.”

“Yes, I do –”

“Except for your teeth!” Fearlessly, she sticks a blackberry-stained finger into his mouth and lifts his lip, peering closer at his fangs. “How do you hide these? You can’t use illusions like us.”

Regis gently lowers her hand from his mouth. “I try to make sure not to show my teeth when I smile or speak. And I try to live away from cities. It’s far easier to hide some of the…more obvious aspects of my vampire nature.” The lack of shadow and reflection, mainly.

The Cub tilts her head. “Isn’t it easier to just live with other vampires? Don’t you have a family you could live with?”

“Not exactly. Vampires don’t really have families, you see.” It’s not something he particularly enjoys talking about, but when asked by this Fox Cub with wide, curious eyes – and with her staunchly fierce Mother standing close by – he feels compelled to explain. “When we’re born, we don’t stay very long with our parents before striking out on our own.” Indeed, he can’t remember what his mother’s face looks like. The very opposite of Fox Mothers – whereas the bond between a vulpess and her child is immensely and irrevocably strong, there is little to no bond between a vampire mother and her child. It’s not a hostile or malicious decision on the part of the parents. It’s simple nonchalance. The parents had the same childhood experience, as did their parents, and theirs beyond them. In all honesty, when Regis emerged from his village grave after regenerating for fifty years and began life abstaining from blood, he couldn’t help but feel jealous of the human children who received such fond love from their own parents. 

The Cub frowns. “That’s sad. What about your friends? You must have friends among other vampires, right?”

“I did have other vampire friends for some time. But that didn’t turn out very well, I’m afraid.” That was when Regis had fallen into the worst of his blood addiction, thanks in part to the peer pressure and encouragement from those so-called ‘friends’. And then, of course, Dettlaff…he doesn’t want to think about that right now. “Besides, there aren’t many vampires living in this world. We’re few in number – perhaps fewer in number than you aguaras. When we first arrived, we had a semblance of society and culture carried over.” Some of which were rather unsavoury, admittedly. “But over time our numbers dwindled. We became less connected, more and more scattered across the Continent. Living among other vampires isn’t as easy as you’d think. But that’s all right. I’ve made plenty of friends among humans over the years.”

She frowns again at this, looking confused. “Really?”

“Yes. You sound surprised.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly had nice experiences with humans. I don’t know _any_ aguaras who haven’t been chased or attacked by humans if they ever went near them.”

Regis remembers Ameer saying that most other vulpesses prefer to live in the wild and stay well away from humans; that he himself is a rarity for living so closely among them. “Your caution towards humans isn’t unfounded – your own experiences can certainly substantiate that. But I’d like to think I have…good taste, so to say, when it comes to humans.”

She glances over towards Yennefer and the others, far in the distance. “Are those some of them?”

“Yes, they are.” He gestures to the foraged food. “This is for them.”

A mischievous grin flickers on her face. The Cub reaches into the bushes, obviously searching for something. When she pulls her hands out, something is clasped within them.

“Here! You can give this to your friends to eat!” She says with a glint in her eyes.

Regis guesses it’s something unpleasant, so he holds up his hands – like hers, they’ve been stained a pinkish purple from the blackberries. “Thank you, but I think I’ve gathered enough food for now.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, the Cub releases whatever creature she’d found back into the bushes. Good, he’s managed to avoid a Fox Mother prank. That’s probably a first.

“I am assuming you had another reason to call us over.” Regis hears Ameer suddenly speaking in Common. “What is it?”

The Fox Mother narrows her eyes. When she carries on speaking in her language, Ameer shakes his head.

“Whatever it is, I want my friend to hear it too.”

“Fine.” The Fox Mother glances at Regis disdainfully. “If the vampire wants to listen, he can. I wanted to warn you against going into Crookback Bog. A Tusail lives in the swamps. A very evil Tusail.”

Ameer’s eyes widen. His face is taut, frightened. He says nothing.

“This one has been here for a very long time. Longer than us, longer than the vrans who ruled Loc Muinne, longer even than the leshens who guard the woods. They have always been here, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the good times to end and for their worship to begin once more. When we Fox Mothers arrived into this world, the Tusaila tried to steal and copy our powers – but added their own evil to them, their own malicious touch. An offensive mimicry of ours, and much more deadly. There is only one Tusail left now, but even that one is very dangerous.”

The Crone. She has to be talking about the Crone.

“The Tusail only listened to one person – leader of the Aen Elle. Both cruel, power hungry minds with evil magic. Both very dangerous. They brought each other gifts, shared a symbiosis and mutual respect. He valued their alliance, knew to keep such powerful beings in his good favours. But his presence…tamed them somewhat. They were humbled, knowing there was another who was powerful enough to cut them down if he so wanted, but who preferred to have a…partnership with them instead. Now he is gone. The Tusail listens to no one, respects no one. So, I tell you – turn back. Do not go near that Tusail.”

Regis steps forwards. “If you’re talking about the Crone, I’m afraid that’s who we’re looking for.”

The Fox Mother turns her gaze sharply to him. “A foolish mission. Most of the creatures in the woods are either leaving, or turning to her, acting under her thrall. Even a leshen. And those brutes are mean and territorial. The fact it is willing to work with – work _for_ – that Tusail should be reason enough to turn away. Why do you seek her?”

“A man who poisoned our friend was looking for the Crone. But he teleported away from Velen. It’s him we’re really looking for, and the Crone might know where he went. He has brown hair, a red cloth on his forehead –”

“I know the man.” The Fox Mother interrupts.

Regis’s eyes widen. “You do? Did you speak to him?”

She looks at him disdainfully. “Why would I talk to a human? I only observed him. He seemed dangerous, so I wanted to keep an eye on him.” She frowns. “A strange man. He hated walking in the forests. Seemed terrified of the ravens and the foxes at first. Yet when he realised the remaining creatures now work for the Tusail, he seemed relaxed.”

Because he knew these creatures now won’t listen to Regis and Ameer, Regis thinks. The Fox Mother continues.

“He was a nervous person, but he stank of a strange power. He felt contradictory. Why would someone powerful be so afraid? Maybe he was mad. Terrified of ravens and foxes, yet seeking out the most dangerous being in this land. And yesterday, he found the Tusail.”

This is not news to Regis, but he’s surprised the Fox Mother knows. “How do you know that?”

“I felt it. I felt the Tusail’s presence, revealing herself. He found her. I know it. And she gave him a gift.”

“What kind of gift?” Regis asks.

“A gift of severing.”

“Of severing?”

“To cut a bond.” The Fox Mother glances back towards Crookback Bog. “That is all I can tell you. The Tusail guards her secrets fiercely.”

“You would not happen to know, then, about He-Who-Listened?” Ameer asks. “We have heard a few tales of him now, but I think you are a more reliable source of information than the villagers.”

The Fox Mother nods knowingly at this. “That is true. Unfortunately, I cannot help you much. He was a hunter with raven black hair and a handsome face, from the Long Ago Time. The time when Velen drowned in blood, when the land was inhabited by a species that has long since gone extinct. Not quite elf and not quite human, either. A mix of the two, long before either existed in this world, long before Fox Mothers did too. No trace of them exist anymore, except for in very old stories. We call them the Old Folk. This hunter, I believe he was killed by She-Who-Knows, murdered with a single word whispered in his ear.”

“That’s what we heard, too.” Regis remembers the story Jemima told Yennefer. So those facts, at least, are accurate – a hunter who was killed by She-Who-Knows during the tumultuous period when the mother was at war with her daughters.

“I have heard that he died by an oak tree, but also that he died in a swamp – I’m not sure which of these is the truth, I’m afraid. With the Tusaila, it’s always difficult to know.”

“Tell me.” Ameer touches the back of his neck. “…Do our powers work against the Tusail?”

The Fox Mother hesitates, and for a moment looks uncertain. “…I don’t know.”

“You do not know?”

“The Tusail can see through her creatures, those working for her or under her thrall. Our illusions can still trick these creatures, even when she is watching through them – though I will warn you, she is learning, so be careful. As for the Tusail herself…” The Fox Mother shivers. “I have never faced her directly. I have no notion if our illusions would work directly on her.”

Ameer nods, eyes cast with apprehension. “…I see.”

“You should leave this place. Like we are. Come with us.” The Fox Mother suggests. “Once, I had my own territory in the swamps. But no more. Between the Tusail and the humans gaining more and more territory, it is no longer safe for us.”

“Where will you go?” Ameer asks.

“Brokilon forest. We are similar to the dryads, in some ways, and they will find our help invaluable in their fight against humans.”

“There’s a lot of danger in Brokilon – for the dryads too. Are you sure it’s truly safe?” Regis asks.

“We can do something dryads cannot: illusions. If we do encounter hostile humans, it will be easy to hide ourselves. And now that forest resides in territory of the black flags with golden suns. Those people do not go into Brokilon forest often. They know it is too dangerous for only some measly timber when there is an abundance of it in their vast empire.”

“Winter is fast approaching. If you want somewhere to wait out the cold weather before travelling, go to Aeremas’ abandoned manor, south of Oxenfurt. No one travels there anymore, so it should be safe for you.” Ameer suggests.

“An abandoned manor…Perhaps we shall seek temporary shelter there.” She nods. “How about you come with us?”

“Sadly, I cannot. I must find the Tusail.” He tells her. “But thank you.”

“Well, if you insist on travelling to Crookback Bog…” She points at Tatanu. “Where was he born?”

“In Novigrad.” Regis answers.

“Good. He will be safe, then. And your steeds?”

“Redania.”

“They will be safe, too.” She passes Ameer a cloth sack. Ameer opens it, and Regis can see a bundle of plants – sweet woodruff, dill, and fennel. “All creatures born in this land are vulnerable to her dark magic. Raven, wolf, fox – no matter the species. If they were born in Velen, then as ‘Velen’s rightful ruler’, she can claim them as her own. Your raven and your steeds will be safe, though. Since they were not born here, she cannot drag them under her thrall.”

Regis hadn’t even thought of that. The idea of his friend being turned into one of the Crone’s minions makes his stomach turn. Thank goodness Tatanu was born in Novigrad.

“I don’t know if you can break the Crone’s thrall once she has her claws in a creature, but you can certainly _prevent_ it. There is an elven family living in the swamps. Of course, they do not like us Fox Mothers, but I keep a close eye on them anyway. Mages – but fools, utter fools. They think their magic can protect them from the Crone, but they are very, very wrong. That being said, they have managed to cast some clever spells to try and keep her influence at bay. I understand there is an elven spell, very old – from before the Aen Siedhe came to this world – that can help protect you from her. I heard them call it Dìonadair. I cannot use such magic, but I stole some ingredients anyway, just in case I could use them in some way. But you can use magic, yes? I think you will have more use of this than I will.”

Ameer nods thoughtfully. “I have not used this spell before, but I do know of it. I should be able to cast it. Thank you.” He carefully puts the ingredients in his bag. “And thank you for warning me.”

“Good luck. I think you’ll need it.”

The Child runs over. She tugs on Ameer’s hand, and whispers something into his ear. Ameer nods in understanding. “I will.”

“Thank you.” The Child grins, and returns to her Mother’s side. She waves to Regis cheerily; he waves back at her, smiling.

Once more, Regis blinks – and the Fox Mother and her Child vanish. They’re still here, somewhere, but Regis knows he’ll have no success in trying to find them again.

Ameer exhales. He looks worried. “I am sorry about that. I thought she might be annoyed, but I did not think she would react so badly to your presence.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it. You couldn’t have known.”

“She was very jumpy, I think. Probably because of the Crone.” He sighs, and murmurs, “if even other vulpesses are leaving…”

“Ameer, what did she mean by Tusail?”

Once more, Ameer looks nervous. Slowly, he limps towards the edge of the forest, looking towards the undergrowth, listening to unseen creatures that scurry and scuttle in the shadows. The fox, the one who had kept an eye on Regis and the Cub, is still there. It trots towards Ameer and rubs itself against his legs.

“…May I ask, Regis. When did you vampires cross into this world? When did you depart your own and come here?”

“One thousand five hundred years ago. During the renowned Conjunction of Spheres. Not the one that took place in Skellige recently, of course.”

Ameer nods. “So, they call you post-conjunction creatures, do they not?”

“That’s correct.”

Ameer stares into the forest. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

“This is not knowledge we give away so flippantly. But I will tell you this, since you are a fellow ‘monster’.” He looks at Regis. “We are not post-conjunction creatures. We were here before humans, vampires and other monsters. We came here with the elves.”

Regis stares in surprise – though it makes perfect sense, when he thinks about it. Fox Mothers rely on elves to reproduce, after all.

“In a way, you could call us part of the Elder Races. Though elves do not like to count us as such.” He says dryly. “We have been around for just as long as them, dwarves and halflings. But we were not the first.”

“Gnomes, vrans, werebbubs, korred and dryads.” Regis has read plenty of history books, heard plenty of stories. “Thought to be the first settlers.”

“Not the first.” Ameer sits down awkwardly, placing his crutches down beside him. The fox jumps on his lap, and he strokes it distractedly, eyes clouded with thought. “I once heard someone say that history is like a chasm. A deep, deep chasm going through the heart of a mountain. Our knowledge is a torch. If we drop that torch into the chasm, it will light up the rocks as it falls. It shows us the knowledge of our past. But the further it falls, the further back in history we go, the harder it is to see. Soon, we will not be able to see it at all. But we know it will be falling further and further, lighting up history and past we will never see or learn about.”

“An elegant metaphor.” Regis sits beside him.

“There were humans and vampires. Before that, the Elder Races and vulpesses. Before that, gnomes, vrans, werebbubs, korred and drayds. Before _that_ , leshens who live in primeval forests, mighty creatures who live deep in abysses, and the Old Folk the Fox Mother mentioned. And before even _that_ …our knowledge fades into nothingness. That torch slips from view. We do not know when these creatures joined this world, or why, or even what they are. Only that they were here before everything else.” He looks at Regis. “We call them Tusaila. Those who were here originally. It is the best we get to naming them.”

Regis begins to understand Ameer’s great unease upon the Crone being described in such a way. “Have you encountered many of these Tusail?”

“Tusaila.” He corrects Regis. “That is the plural version of the word, you see? But to answer your question, I have heard tales of a few, and met one. In Ofier. I was exploring the mountains by myself, going farther than I should have. My Mother always warned me against going too far, but I was overexcited. And I found a cave, by the top of the mountain, with prettily coloured rocks naturally growing in the walls. Being a foolish child, and intrigued by the rainbow colour of these rocks that I did not recognise, I went inside. It was much deeper than I thought, but I was stubborn and would not turn back. Until I found it. Skulls and bones lined the cavern floor. A huge creature, coiled up like a snake, was sleeping in front of me. It had sickly grey scales, eyes milky with blindness, and strange tendrils trailing from its body, spreading all over the cavern.” He shudders. “I knew instantly it was a Tusail.”

“How could you tell?”

“I could sense it.” He says simply. “I had never seen it before in my life, but I knew. For a moment, I was paralysed. I saw the tendrils were… _fused_ to the rock. And when I put my hand on the stone, I could feel its heart beating through it. It was linked to this mountain cave in a way I did not understand, but I realised the danger – it could sense movement through the rock itself. When it began to stir from its slumber, I was able to free myself of that paralysis, and I ran. Out of the cave, back into the mountains. In my haste, I practically threw myself down the mountainside.” His fingers trace the back of his neck. “I injured myself quite badly. I still have a scar there. But I barely felt the pain. The cave entrance was much, much smaller than I remembered as I ran out, but only when I escaped, I realised why. It was closing. Sealing itself up. Slowly, but surely. Those tunnels in the mountain were truly a _part_ of the Tusail, and that cave was like…some terrible second mouth. Had I not left when I did – and had the Tusail not been asleep when I ventured inside – I would have been trapped in the belly of the mountain with the Tusail. I knew I would have died.”

“Goodness. That’s frightening.”

“It was. Even after my injury healed, I did not venture out for months afterwards.” Ameer shakes his head. “We spread word about the cave with rainbow rocks in the entrance – I understand now, they were bait to lure prey inside. We even left warning signs near the rocks of that swallowing cave. I think we may have prevented many deaths doing that. I never sought out a Tusail again after that. I have heard about harmless Tusaila, even kind Tusaila. Like the Tusail who walks across the desert, whose horns are made from pure ruby and who creates oases with its tears. But there are plenty of evil ones. Like this Crone.” His eyes darken. “And we are willingly walking into her territory.” Ameer’s face is harrowed, frightened. He turns to Regis, gaze intently upon him. “What do you think? Am I just being foolish?”

For a moment, Regis considers lying. He should think of some comforting words. Something to stop Ameer from worrying.

But his mind goes blank. He cannot think of what to say that wouldn’t come across as immensely forced and ingenuine. How can he, when he too is so terribly afraid?

So he decides to say just that. He decides to be honest.

“…You’re not being foolish, Ameer.” Regis speaks quietly. “I’m terrified. I don’t…I don’t like how she’s able to trick me. It makes me feel weak and useless. I…” His fingers curl into a fist. Three faces flash into his mind. Three beloved faces. A Nilfgaardian who wasn’t a Nilfgaardian. A foul-mouthed female half wild, half dryad. And the child of a Cintran noblewoman who just wanted to own a brothel in Toussaint. “…I can’t protect everyone in this state. I couldn’t protect you at the river because of the Crone’s powers. If something happens to you, or Yennefer, or Zoltan, or Geralt…” He can’t go through it again. He cannot live with the grief of his dead friends who he failed to save. Not again.

Regis feels a gentle warm hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “…Thank you, Regis.”

“Thank you?”

Ameer nods. “I…I feel reassured knowing that you are afraid too. That sounds terrible, I know, but…I am glad it is not just me. So thank you. For being honest.”

Regis understands what he means. Yes. Better to be afraid together, than to feign bravery but feel alone. “…And thank you for being honest, too. It makes me feel less foolish.”

They sit silently for a moment longer, knowing the other is afraid, and feeling braver for it. Regis is glad for the temporary solitude – not having to worry about hiding his identity in front of Witold, or hiding his fear in front of those who will be looking to him for protection.

But soon, Ameer starts to shiver, the chill obviously settling upon him, so Regis stands up. “We should head back to the others.”

He pulls Ameer to his feet. The fox jumps off his lap and slips back into the undergrowth. As Ameer watches it go, he suddenly gasps.

“Oh! I almost forgot.”

“What is it?”

Ameer looks at him seriously. “The Fox Child wanted to give you this.”

“What?” Regis frowns. Did he do something wrong? Did she want to warn him of something?

Solemnly, Ameer holds out his hands, which are clasped together. He opens them –

And something jumps onto Regis’s face.

Startled, Regis yelps and stumbles backwards. He quickly plucks the attacker from his face, and feels the slimy skin beneath his finger tips.

Ameer bursts out laughing as Regis stares down at the rather disgruntled frog. “Ha! That was good! That was worth the wait!”

Regis sighs, but his embarrassment quickly gives way to amusement. He finds himself laughing, too. “…That was clever of her, I’ll give her that. Very sneaky.” This is what she was trying to give him before. It seems Regis was foolish to think he could avoid vulpess mischief.

“Ahh…” Ameer wipes his eyes. “Simple but effective. The best tricks of all.”

Carefully, Regis releases the frog back into the bushes, where it hops quickly away. He feels better now. Laughter is a simple but effective remedy to dread.

-

The day progresses, the sky becomes colder and darker, and still the hoses haven’t calmed.

They’ve settled enough to graze at the long, unkept grass bordering the fields, but every few seconds they raise their head to watch the river. Classic prey behaviour, and a clear sign that something is still lurking in the water, unseen to them.

Regis hates himself for it, but a very shameful part of him is relieved. Yes, Tye is getting further and further away, and that frustrates him immensely…But the longer the horses are agitated, the more they can put off going into Crookback Bog.

Thanks to his conversation with Ameer, though, Regis realises that _everyone_ feels the same way. He sees it in their faces. Hidden relief at this prolonged delay into Crookback Bog. An uncharacteristic cheeriness as they sit by the campfire, followed by brief moments of guilt for feeling that way. They can’t hide it, though they try by busying themselves with various tasks.

Shani takes the opportunity to check over Ameer’s wounded foot and change the dressing, surprised at the speed in which it’s healing. Yennefer is studiously writing notes on all she knows about the Crone, trying to puzzle out the reasons behind the Crone’s strange behaviour. Zoltan sharpens his axe, despite it being perfectly sharp already. Witold stirs an aromatic stew of the various foraged plants and a skinny rabbit he managed to catch. Ameer carefully oils Milva’s bow with loving strokes. He’d been forced to drop it in the drowner attack, so Regis had made sure to collect it before they escorted Oskar to Port. He was so overwhelmingly relieved to see that the bow hadn’t been damaged at all.

As for Regis, he decides to read over Tye’s letters to the mysterious Pivoine. He sits downwind of Ameer, so as not to disturb him with the floral scent.

_To my Sweetheart,_

_I decided to take a break from the gown today, as you suggested. You were right – I was beginning to lose my sanity over that gown, and had I made a mistake in my impatience after all this toil, it would have been ever so frustrating._

_Today, I visited an old bookstore to purchase the book you recommended. It’s one of my favourite places – I’m sure that, if you visited, you’d never leave it! The store must be over a hundred years old, and has been in the owner’s family for generations. When you step inside, the air is cool and still, and it’s so quiet, it’s like entering a whole different world. I spent my childhood curled up by the window, like a cat in a sunbeam, reading a new book that I’d purchased. Or running from aisle to aisle, running my fingers along the spines of the oldest books I could find. I wasn’t always good at choosing – I’d find a book with a lovely cover and buy it, only to find it was far too advanced for me!_

_Even now, though, adventure books are always my favourite. Most people probably think them to be silly or juvenile. My grandfather said reading was no use unless you were learning something from it. But I disagree. Isn’t reading for simple pleasure enough? I don’t think everything in life should be a chore, or some desperate attempt to gain a new skill and outshine others. If we have the opportunity to waste time reading stupid fiction books, we should. There are plenty of people who don’t have that luxury. We should be grateful that we do._

_I’m sorry. I don’t mean to just complain this entire letter. What my grandfather said irritated me – he was trying to make me feel guilty for pausing my work on the gown. But I don’t care what he thinks! And anyway, this book you’ve recommended is so good, I’ve been struggling to put it down!_

_When we next meet in person again, let’s talk about it!_

_Yours,_

_Pivoine._

Regis gains nothing, no new information, but an insatiable and dark curiosity drives him to read them anyway. He tries to imagine Pivoine in his head. What colour is her hair? Her eyes? How does she dress? What does her voice sound like? Her laughter? Are her fingers slightly calloused from her embroidery, having suffered various needle pricks over the years? Does she need glasses from the strain of her eyes from reading so many books? Is she young, or old? Does she have freckles? Birth marks? Is she human? An elf? A dwarf? A halfling? Is she even still alive? Just who is this woman who could love a despicable man like Tye?

“Food’s ready.” Witold calls, dragging Regis out of this flower-scented spiral he’s led himself down. Regis eats from his bowl of stew ladled out to him, more out of habit than hunger – and is surprised to find himself having a genuine appetite. These have been stressful days, after all.

As Ameer eats, he takes out his quiver and counts the arrows distractedly. He bought a new batch at Newmoor, to replace the ones he used up during the drowner attack. Disapprovingly, he sighs. “The craftmanship here is not very good. Look.” He points to the fletching. One of the feathers is little more than a few stubbly barbs.

Opposite him, Zoltan – who has been devouring his food, a habit from his army days – grins, and gestures to Tatanu. The raven is sitting on Regis’s shoulder, eyeing up the meat in his stew. “You could pluck some feathers from him.”

“No, I would not do that to poor Tatanu.” Ameer smiles. “He likes me and I do not want that to change. Right, Tatanu?”

Of course, Tatanu cannot understand him, but the raven seems to have picked up the sound of his own name, for he caws in response. Witold watches on with a suspicious gaze.

“So…You’re a mage like Ameer?” He asks Regis, feigning disinterest as he stirs his bowl of stew.

“Yes.”

“You even have a pet like him. Is it bewitched? Or just tame?”

At this, Regis frowns. “Neither. Trained, I suppose, is a better word. Ameer has a pet?”

“I do not have a pet.” Ameer insists. “He is talking about the wolf.”

“What wolf?”

As if to answer, a set of amber eyes light up from the shadow. Silently, a she wolf pads forwards.

The effect on the group is instantaneous. Zoltan jumps backwards, grabbing his axe. Shani gasps, and Yennefer holds her arm out in front of her, casting lightning in her other hand. Ameer, however, simply smiles happily. Witold looks as casual as if a tame sheepdog had just ambled over to their campfire.

As for the she wolf, she turns her gaze sharply towards Regis. Her hackles raise and she begins snarling, which turns into a whine.

“Calm down, everyone.” Ameer calls out. “She will not attack.”

Zoltan hesitates. “Are you sure? It looks like it’s gonna!”

Ameer looks sternly at the wolf, who stops growling. She trots towards the campfire – giving Regis a wide berth – and sits down next to Ameer, nosing his face with her muzzle.

“Hello again.” Ameer strokes her huge head, while the others look on in surprise and alarm.

“It’s so big.” Shani whispers. “I always imagined wolves being smaller…”

She’s right – it’s huge, almost Ameer’s size as he’s sitting down. Wolves aren’t just wild dogs, after all. They’re far more powerful, intelligent, and lethal.

This wolf, though, seems more than content to be petted like a domesticated animal. She slumps herself across Ameer’s legs, giving the comical impression of an incredibly overgrown lapdog.

“Why is she here? Is she hungry?” Zoltan asks, a little nervously.

“She is hungry – times have been lean in the swamps, I think, but that is not why she is here.” Ameer’s face grows sad. “Her family is gone. I think she is lonely and wanting company.”

Witold plucks a scrap of rabbit out of his bowl, and holds it out towards the wolf. “Well, if she’s hungry…”

However, the wolf pointedly ignores him, turning her head away from his hand. When Ameer does the same, though, the wolf happily licks it up.

“You waved a sword at her.” Ameer explains with the tone of a teacher scolding a naughty student. “She would not accept food from someone who threatened her.”

Witold shrugs. “Fair enough.” Although, Regis detects a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

“Does she have a name?” Zoltan asks, growing more comfortable – or rather, more accustomed – to the wolf’s presence.

“No.” Ameer says simply.

“You’ve got to give her a name.” Zoltan insists. “Can’t just keep calling her ‘the wolf’. Regis named his raven, you name your wolf.”

“She is not mine. But…I suppose I can give her a name.” Ameer looks upon her face. An idea comes to him, and he grins. “Juru.”

“What does that mean?” Regis asks.

“Puppy.” Ameer strokes her head, speaking in babyish tones. “Because you are like a cute little puppy! Are you a little puppy? Yes you are!”

_No she’s not_ , the entire group seems to think silently as Ameer dotes over this extremely large, wild, apex predator. _She’s really, really not_.

Yennefer sees Regis’s bemused expression. “Ameer is terrible at naming things. His old mare was called hissani – which means ‘horsey’, and he tried to call my old falcon that I used for sending letters ‘birdie’.”

“Hm.” Regis smiles, secretly grateful that no one here speaks his vampiric language to judge him for Tatanu’s name meaning ‘bird’.

Ameer scowls at her, then turns back to the wolf – or rather, Juru, whose tail is wagging non-stop. “You like it, yes? You like your name! Go give auntie Yennefer a kiss!”

“No –” Yennefer turns her head sharply as Juru bounds over to her and attempts to lick her face. Futilely, Yennefer tries to push her away as Ameer laughs. “Back. _Back_.”

Juru stops trying to lick her, but gives Yennefer a good sniff over, taking lots of interest in her clothes and in her boots, which she attempts to chew.

“I think she can smell your perfume. She likes it.” Ameer grins. He holds out his hand, and Juru trots back to him, much to Yennefer’s relief.

“Is _Juru_ going to be coming with us to Crookback Bog?” Yennefer asks. “Because I don’t want it scaring the horses – or trying to attack them.”

“She will not try to hunt them, they are too difficult to take down alone. And when the horses realise, they will become accustomed to her presence.” Ameer explains. “Besides, I cannot know if she will follow us into the swamps or not. I will not force her if she decides not to.”

“But you could, if you wanted to?” Shani points out. “What kind of mage are you?”

“I specialise in illusions.” Since his misstep with Zoltan and Dandelion, he’s put far more thought into his cover story. Though at least this time around, his Fox Mother hasn’t appeared to accidentally give the game away. “I come from the best school in Ofier that works entirely in illusory magic. Our skills are better than even the best northern mages. And I was at the top of my class. I can cast other spells too, though. Including polymorphism. And charms. Speaking of…”

Ameer reaches into his bag and pulls out the ingredients that the Fox Mother gave him.

Carefully, he grinds them together in a bowl, making an earthy green paste. He spits into the mashed up ingredients, then holds the bowl underneath Juru’s muzzle. Her mouth is open, panting, and he allows a drop of her saliva to enter the paste.

Next, he holds his palm over the bowl. Whispering, he begins to chant in what sounds to be very, very old Elder Speech. When he uncovers his hand, the green mixture is glowing with luminescence. Ameer loosens his jumper and under-top, pulling them down slightly, dips his finger in the mix, then paints something on his upper sternum. A symbol – or a word? Regis thinks it might be Ofieri script, though he has no notion what the word means. Carefully, Ameer paints the same word on Juru’s chest. Immediately, she tries to lick it off.

“No.” Ameer says firmly. Juru whines, but leaves the paste be.

Placing one hand on Juru’s head, Ameer closes his eyes and begins to chant. The paste on their chests glow brighter and brighter, swirling with green light, as if they contained the twisting northern aurora within them. As the glow strengthens, it becomes painful to look at – until the light is no longer in the paste, but hovering in the air. With a life of its own, it floats forwards, twisting and glittering like starlight on water.

Ameer carefully reaches his hand out, and touches the light with his index finger. It swirls around his finger, twisting and stretching itself, until it creates a shape. It’s the same symbol that is painted on their chests.

It pulsates with a sharp white light, and as it does so, a faint chiming noise plays on the air. Juru’s ears swivel at the high pitch. Whatever it is, Ameer seems satisfied. Relief washes over his face, and he nods. The symbol collapses in on itself, curling into a tight ball – and disintegrates. As the breeze blows across them, sparks of the light drift away on the wind, scattering like ash. Juru sneezes when specks trail by her nose.

Ameer leans forwards, wiping away the paste from Juru. Where he does so, Regis sees that the fur underneath has been stained. The symbol remains. Likewise, when Ameer rubs the mark from his own chest, the symbol remains on his skin.

“Is that permanent?” Yennefer asks, eye brow raised.

“No.” Ameer straightens his clothes again. “It will fade when I lift the enchantment. But until then, the animal is protected from another’s influence. The Crone cannot take them under her thrall.”

“Is it possible to undo the Crone’s thrall?” Yennefer asks, both for practical’s sake and her own professional curiosity. “Save other creatures from that terrible fate?”

Ameer hesitates. “Honestly, I do not know. If it is possible, I imagine it will be very difficult. The Crone is extremely powerful.”

A brief, tense silence settles on the group. 

“That was impressive.” Witold speaks up at last, breaking the sombre spell that the Crone’s name has cast upon them. “Didn’t realise we were gonna be having some entertainment tonight. That was a beautiful spell.” As Ameer shrugs humbly, Witold glances over at Regis. “What about you? You got any fancy light shows for us? What spells can you cast?”

“Nothing as special.” Regis says quietly. “And I try not to use them frequently. Save my energy. There’ll be no demonstrations from me tonight.”

“Right.” Witold frowns. “Did you go to…what’s it called, I forget…Ban Ard, is it?”

“Yes he did.” Yennefer interjects, obviously regretting this excuse. “He graduated a long time ago. We met at a mage’s banquet, that’s how we know each other.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, but Witold doesn’t question it, for he’s suddenly become distracted. He’s looking over at the horses. Regis realises that, despite the wolf’s presence, the horses have calmed considerably. They’re no longer constantly looking over at the river with wide, bulging eyes.

“…Well, there’s no time for a show, anyway. Think the horses are ready for us to leave, finally. Just in time. It’s getting dark. We’ll cross the border, get to the nearest town – it’s called Lurtch. Bit of an odd town, they don’t much like magic or magic users on account of some cursed gold incident, but they’re harmless enough. We should reach it before the day becomes too dark.”

None of them argue, for none of them want to travel Velen at night.

Untying their horses, they ride back to the river as vivid orange and crimson spreads across the sky. The setting sun turns this strange land, filled with treacherous swamps, wetlands and monsters, a beautiful golden hue. Deceptively beautiful. But it’s not enough to rid Regis of the dread he feels as they approach the bridge.

Just like before, Regis can sense nothing wrong with this river. It’s just as peaceful and empty as before. But this time, the horses seem utterly calm. Regis has no idea what was lurking there before that he couldn’t see.

Juru runs ahead. As she approaches the bridge, her ears go back flat, and she whines pitifully. Witold watches her carefully.

After a moment, though, she steps onto the bridge and walks slowly across. On the other side, she sits down and stares expectantly at Ameer, barking once as if to call him over.

Witold breathes out. “It’s safe. Come on.”

He kicks his horse, and rides calmly over the bridge. Nothing happens. Ameer does the same. Nothing happens. Yennefer and Shani pass over untroubled. As does Zoltan. And, though he rides with his heart hammering in his chest, Regis rides over with no problem either. No monster attacks, no hidden tricks from the Crone.

Yet as soon as they cross the threshold into Crookback Bog, Regis freezes.

Icy fear washes over him. Drowns him. Steals the breath from him.

Something very evil resides here. Every last instinct in his body is screaming at him to turn around and leave.

He sees Ameer’s expression mirrors his own. He senses the Crone too. This is her territory. None of them are welcome here. The others don’t sense her presence; the foulness in the air, faint but still discernible. Her maliciousness radiates on the breeze. They need to turn back. They’re not welcome here. They need to turn back.

He inhales sharply. It hurts to breathe. Something is wrong, very wrong, they need to turn back –

But nothing _is_ wrong. No monsters are jumping out at them. He spies no evil magic, no three-way spiral. Nothing is wrong, but he feels so very, very afraid.

Is she doing this deliberately? The thought comes to him quite suddenly. She can hide herself if she wishes to. Why would she allow him to detect her evil presence now…unless she wants to scare him. She wants to frighten him away from the swamps, away from this terrible land and never return.

The dread inside of him almost makes him turn his mule. But that’s what the Crone wants. For him to abandon his friends – to abandon Geralt.

He remembers the last time they spoke. The dizzyingly beautiful sky above them, with its boundless celestial display; stars scattered like froth on the deepest ocean wave, the moon pale and ghostly, yet strengthening in its gentle light. He remembers the warm breeze. The smell of grass and moss and mandrakes. And he remembers Geralt’s face, tired and worn, but a flicker of triumph in his eyes and a smile upon his lips. He cannot let that be the last time he sees Geralt.

The thought is fierce and burning, and the memory strengthens his resolve. The Crone wants to frighten him away – that means, deep down, she’s afraid of him. She knows she isn’t invulnerable, Ciri proved that, and she knows Regis has his own fearsome powers. That’s why she wants to scare him away. She’s frightened, too. That has to count for something.

Gritting his teeth, Regis urges on his mule, catching up with the others. He’s no coward, and the Crone will have to try harder than that to chase him away.

It doesn’t take them long to reach Lurtch. The windmill acts as a useful beacon, guiding them to the small village surrounded by barren fields. As they approach the entrance to the village, Regis spies a large sign hanging from an archway. On it, a picture of a pig has been vandalised with a red painted cross through the middle. Hm. These people have a vendetta against pigs, then? Regis wonders why.

This village seems like any other village in Velen that they’ve visited so far on their journey. Except for three things. The first, the windmill overhead. Large and grand structures like that tend to be used, abused and on occasion even burnt during war, in efforts to use it as lookout posts and food storages – or stop the enemy from using it in such a way. The fact it seems to be well kept after is impressive. The second, a huge pile of rotten food in the middle of the village’s square. Mainly wheat, but also carrots, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, cabbages and other vegetables are heaped in a pile. The food has turned black, wilted and shrivelled as if left in the sun. Yet not a single fly buzzes around this hoard of food. Very disconcerting.

“I think we should burn it.” Regis hears one villager saying.

“Shouldn’t we put it back in the soil? The sorceress was talking about fertilisation and whatnot.” Another villager suggests.

The first shakes his head. “No. I fear it’ll have a greater chance of permanently damaging the soil than acting as fertiliser if we do that.”

The final conspicuous feature of the village seems to be a new one. A tent has been set up in the centre of the village – though a fortunate distance away from the rotten, stinking food. By the front, two red banners hang. Each shows a golden wheel emblazoned on the front.

Shani approaches one of the villagers standing by the food, a man wearing slightly unkempt clothes that look a little too big for his hungry frame. “Excuse me, sir.”

He drags his gaze away from the vegetables. When he sees her, he looks relieved. “Oh, you’re the doctor, aren’t you? The folk in Benek were talkin’ bout you. Redanian medic, short red hair, pretty face.”

“My name’s Shani. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I thought you were heading to Oxenfurt?”

“I was, but I had a change of plans. We were wondering if there was somewhere for us to stay the night?”

“Of course, of course. You don’t want to be travelling around Velen in the dark, trust me.” He glances at Witold, and his face breaks into a relieved smile. “And the witcher who isn’t a witcher! We aren’t doomed yet, then.”

“You having monster problems?” Witold asks.

“Yeah. Some monsters by the well, stopping us from getting water.” He sighs. His eyes – weary, tired, haunted – make him look much older than he is. “Just another problem on top of all the others. We’ve got lock jaw sickness, Benji’s cut is infected, the bear killing our children, and the crops…”

Regis glances at the pile of vegetables. So this is the ‘blight’ that has been mentioned so many times.

“Name’s Casmir.” The man introduces himself. “I’m the leader of this village – for now.” He looks at the pile of vegetables. “If we can’t fix this blight, though, there may not be a village left come winter. But we’re not there yet, and we’ll be grateful for any help at all. Pay you with whatever we can scrounge together, too. We have a spare house you can rent out. No inn here, but we’ve gotten used to travellers and sorcerers passin’ through, needing a place to stay. Should be able to squeeze all of you in.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” Regis glances at the tent. “I’m assuming it’s not already taken?”

“No, no.” Casmir eyes the tent suspiciously. “Those are the most recent mages. Brought their own tent. Must be some foreign fancy of theirs. Long as they stay out of our way, though, I don’t care.”

An unusually bitter response to aid workers, but Witold did mention Lurtch is suspicious of all magic users. Regis wonders what could have happened to cause this.

“Most recent mage?” Yennefer frowns. “You’ve had a lot visit your village, then?”

He sighs. “Honestly, it becomes hard to keep track of them all. This one ain’t from here, though. Would’ve preferred a Temerian or Nilfgaardian,” he says this with a hint of bitterness, “but we don’t really get much of a choice here, do we?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, let me go set up your room for you.”

As he leaves, Regis catches a glimpse of Yennefer’s expression. She’s staring at the tent with shock and surprise. The expression of someone who has been caught entirely off guard.

“Is everything all right, Yennefer?” Regis asks.

“Those banners…” She stares at them. “That’s the crest of Kovir.”

Before Regis can ask why this is so relevant, the mage in question exits the tent.

A woman wearing shades of dark blue, white and gold, stands ahead of them. She doesn’t see them at first, walking across the village, a very distinct sight in comparison to the other villages. It’s not just her bright, rich colours that contrast with their dreary, muted tones that sets her apart – unlike the other women of the village, she wears trousers and boots, which are slightly muddied. Though the villagers stare at her with suspicious gazes, she walks with her head held high. Her red hair is tied up in a bun, and her face is blushed with freckles.

The closer she gets, the more Yennefer’s eyes widen. And when the woman finally notices them, only a few paces away, she stops in her tracks.

For a moment, the two stare at one another. Their foremost expressions are surprise. There’s a hint of awkwardness. Regret. And the odd feeling of not knowing how to feel, or react, to someone.

The red haired sorceress speaks up first, her voice filled with confusion.

“Yenna?”

Now Yennefer speaks up. Her voice is soft. Not necessarily out of tenderness, but perhaps…sensitivity? Trying to mask her own surprise? Regis isn’t sure. There’s a lot going on, and even his abnormal levels of empathy means he can’t quite pick up on everything. One thing is certain, though. He has a strong feeling that he should, for once, stay quiet as Yennefer speaks.

“It’s nice to see you again, Triss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> -Good luck in your journey, my friend. please, stay safe, no matter what. I very much wish to see you again. our time together was too short.  
> -I will try my hardest. I would like to meet you again, when we finally leave these terrible swamps. And, should we not meet, I hope your journey goes well, Dulla.  
> -May the heavens keep you safe until we meet again  
> -And may the roads guide you quickly back to me.  
> (that was my take on an Ofieri farewell!)
> 
> Lurtch is the village in Velen that is part of the Fool's Gold side quest. I think it was a DLC? Basically, all the villagers (bar one) stole some cursed gold and got turned into pigs, and you've got to help turn them back. It's a pretty fun quest!  
> Also, the Old Folk thing - this was something I invented. I realised that some of the information about the timelines regarding the Crones, their mother, and the arrival of humans and elves didn't quite match up, so I thought I'd add in some of my own lore to try and rectify this. Also because I thought it would be cool haha


	8. Red Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Sorry for the delay with this chapter - my masters course is almost starting, and I've had to sort out some stuff before I start. I also wanted to work on some of the later chapters before I started, which is why this one was a bit delayed on being posted. Thank you for your patience!  
> As this chapter has some Triss-heavy content in it, I think I should probably throw in a little disclaimer here - I don't hate Triss. In fact, I enjoy her character in the books. I think she's very interesting, and I found the direction that her character took to be very interesting too, not at all what I expected. And though she does some pretty fucked up things in the books, they're explored in an interesting way too. However, I really dislike how CDPR handled Triss's character in the games. Not only do I think they ruined a lot of her characterisation and development from the books, but I think they completely mishandled her development in the games as well. I don't mind that Triss did something fucked up in the games - lots of characters do! - but I do mind that they decided to not explore this character arc at all. No one talks about what she did and how it affects the other characters - not her, not Geralt, not Yennefer, no one. Instead, they really drive the argument between Yennefer and Geralt instead, as if Geralt is 100% in the wrong here, and focus on Triss being Super Nice when she's helping the mages in Novigrad. And this really annoyed me, because I can't really accept Triss being Super Nice when they're refusing to explore how she made this big mistake, and I think it was a huge wasted opportunity to make a really memorable, interesting character arc. I mean, they had three whole games to get this right! It's really such a shame that they mishandled her character in this way, and ignored how her actions would've affected both Geralt and Yennefer, and I really don't understand why they did it. Was it because they didn't want to upset Triss fans? Because I think ignoring it was a complete disservice to her character, you know? Not only that, but it's a disservice to Yennefer's character as well. They tell us multiple times that Triss is her best friend, and yet they don't explore how Triss's actions would've had an effect on Yennefer, which again is a real shame because it could've been so interesting to explore.  
> Anyway, I don't mean to go on a rant, and my feelings towards Triss have certainly mellowed over time (I'm not anti-Triss or Triss stan, though that's largely because I really dislike anti/stan culture) and again, I do actually enjoy her character in the books, but that's why I get so frustrated with her character in the games. Considering she's a main character in all 3, she really deserved to be written better, and it's so frustrating she wasn't.  
> That's my opinion anyway. You're free to disagree with it, obviously, but I wanted to contextualise the reasons I'm exploring certain things in the following chapters. I don't hate Triss, but I acknowledge that CDPR didn't do the best job with her, and I want to explore both her character and, importantly, her relationship with Yennefer. I hope I manage to succeed over the course of the story.  
> Sorry, I didn't mean to make this author's note so long, but I just wanted to explain myself a bit further. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_“I always considered it a point of particular pride to count Triss Merigold of Maribor among my closest and dearest friends. This exceptionally talented sorceress was a shining star of her profession, the former mage advisor to King Foltest, and a famous hero of the Battle of Sodden, known as the Fourteenth of the Hill. Yet in no way did she resemble her often unbearably haughty sisters in magic. Her deft mind, warm smile and considerable personal charm had always won over even the hardest of hearts.” – Dandelion on Triss Merigold._

Triss is here.

And Yennefer doesn’t know what to feel.

They embrace each other, each one just as surprised to see the other. Triss should be in Kovir, living comfortably as the King’s advisor. Yennefer should be in sunny Toussaint, relaxing in her retirement. Yet both are in this poor, swampy region so far from their new homes.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Triss articulates that surprise. “What are you doing in Velen?”

“I could ask the same thing. Was Kovir really that dull?” She teases.

Triss smiles. “No – well, it’s not the most exciting place to live. But it definitely has its perks.”

How long has it been since Yennefer has heard this voice? Seen that smile? Four years. Four years, after the Wild Hunt was finally defeated, the White Frost vanquished, and Ciri kept safe. How much has changed? Within herself? Within Triss?

Yet that smile looks the same as ever. And Yennefer doesn’t know what to feel.

Swallowing the conflicted feelings before they even have the chance to birth themselves into Yennefer’s mind, she turns to her companions. “Of course, you know Zoltan.”

Zoltan embraces her. “Can’t believe all these old friends I’m running into! Good to see you, lass!” When he glances back at Yennefer, his smile falters, and he averts his gaze quickly.

Yennefer ignores his expression, knowing exactly what he’s thinking about. Thankfully Triss doesn’t seem to notice. “Good to see you too, Zoltan.”

Yennefer gestures to Regis. “This is Emiel Regis, a travelling barber, surgeon and herbalist. And a fellow mage.” She adds on, quickly remembering the lies they told Witold.

He shakes her hand warmly. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Thankfully, Triss doesn’t seem to recognise his name. Dandelion didn’t reveal Regis’s vampiric status to everybody, then. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is Ameer. A doctor and mage from Ofier.”

“Greetings, and praise the world in it’s never ending creation.” Ameer shakes her hand, though his voice is slightly altered. Strange. Does he recognise Triss?

“Ofier? You’ve come a long way. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, likewise.” There’s a dash of awkwardness in his voice. Oh, for god’s sake…Geralt’s memories. That’s how he recognises her. Yennefer dreads to think what Ameer saw. For god’s sake, Geralt!

“This is Witold. He’s our guide to get us through Velen in one piece.” She moves on.

He nods his head politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“And this is Shani –”

“Pleasure to see you again, Triss.” Shani interrupts quickly, smiling in a somewhat forced way.

“Likewise, Shani.” Triss’s expression is similar. Somehow, though their tone of voice is agreeable enough, Yennefer gets the feeling that it isn’t a pleasure. A strong undercurrent of awkwardness flows between the two. She didn’t realise Shani and Triss knew each other. It seems they weren’t good friends, though.

“Everyone, this is Triss Merigold. A sorceress, and advisor to the king of Kovir.”

“It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other, Yenna. We need to catch up. Are you staying here for the night? Do you need somewhere to stay?”

For a moment, Yennefer realises Triss is going to offer her own tent to stay in, something that fills Yennefer with surprisingly and unreasonably sharp panic. Fortunately, Witold speaks up before Triss can truly offer.

“Don’t worry, our lodgings are sorted.” He takes the reins of his and Ameer’s horse. “I’d better go and get our horses settled in, before it gets too dark to see what we’re doing.”

“I’ll help you.” Shani offers very quickly, taking two more of the horses and following after him. Yennefer strongly resists the urge to follow suit and run away, instead turning to Zoltan.

“Will you sort out the rest?” She asks.

“No problem!” He doesn’t sense her ulterior motive as he takes his own horse and Regis’s mule. Out of everyone here, Zoltan is the one who knows both Triss _and_ herself the best. There are things he knows that no one else here does, and she doesn’t want him to make any more of those painfully unsubtle faces.

“I still can’t believe you’re here.” Triss smiles. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see in some random village in Velen!” She looks to Regis and Ameer. “It’s a relief to see some fellow mages here, too. Though I can’t say I know either of you. Have you ever been to any mage summits?” She gives Regis a subtle look over. Yennefer tenses – though Triss isn’t prone to mindreading, she can probably sense the lack of magic energy on Regis.

“No – as a healer, I have little interest in politics or mage gatherings.” Regis explains carefully. “Besides, my magical abilities are considerably less trained than that of most mages – I didn’t attend a conventional school as most other sorcerers do. I have a feeling I’d end up making a fool of myself.”

Triss cocks her head. “I see. You don’t have much of an aura, no offence intended.”

“An aura?” Regis asks.

“People with the gift of magic, including sources, have a certain presence that others with magical training can normally pick up on.” Triss explains. “It all depends on the training, strength and types. Some magics – goetia and oneiromancy – are exceedingly difficult to pick up on, though.”

Regis smiles, as if abashed. “Ah, this is what I mean; simple concepts that I know so little about, owing to my lack of education. I really would make a fool of myself at any mage summit.” He sounds genuinely embarrassed. Yennefer is impressed at his acting skills; then again, he spends most of his life pretending to be something he’s not. No wonder it’s a skill he’s mastered artfully.

And Triss doesn’t seem suspicious, for she smiles and nods. “Well, you don’t need to worry about anything like that here. Even the slightest bit of magic can make a world of difference. And there are plenty of mages without traditional magical training, since most of the schools were almost destroyed in the war.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Regis smiles politely, not showing his teeth. Yennefer wonders if he’ll be nervous about spending time around another mage – he’ll have to be much more careful about hiding his identity from someone so observant.

When Witold returns with Shani and Zoltan in tow – Shani rather reluctantly – Triss addresses the entire group. “How about you come back to my tent, all of you?” Now she looks to Yennefer. “We have a lot to catch up on, but let’s not do it next to this pile of rotting vegetables.” She gestures to the unsightly mound.

Yennefer is hit with a bout of uncertainty, a feeling she doesn’t relish. Whenever she looks upon Triss’s smiling, bright face that uncertainty strengthens. But she nods in agreement. Her feelings about Triss may be…complicated, but perhaps she’ll know more about the Crone and how to find her.

Besides, it’s better than staying out here, as the sunset begins to fade into darkness. The nearby villagers watch them with suspicious eyes, muttering quietly to each other. For once, their attention doesn’t seem to be particularly focused on Ameer – he gets a few surprised stares, but other than that, the villager’s attention seems to be entirely on Triss and herself. Well, Witold said they don’t like magic here for some reason. Normally, Yennefer wouldn’t think much of it, but their incessant gazes drives her to happily – or at least, not reluctantly – follow Triss into her tent.

Her living quarters are lavish, though Yennefer isn’t surprised. Kovir and Poviss not only have the privilege of being built on huge gold and dimeritium deposits, but have been largely untouched by war. Wealth is abundant in those kingdoms. This is clearly evident in Triss’s outfit – her high-neck, lacy blouse is hidden under a deep blue doublet, which is decorated with delicate golden clasps, buttons, and a golden wheel at the neck to emulate Kovir’s flag, a more expensive outfit than all the villagers’ clothes put together. The tent itself, too, is a good indicator of Kovir’s wealth, with plush cushions, thick canvas that entirely keep the cold out, and elegantly decorated rugs. Calling it a singular tent is incorrect though, for Yennefer realises a smaller one is connected to the central tent. All of Triss’s belongings seem to be in here, so she wonders what the second one is for. Though she assumes it will be just as lavish as this one, miles better than even the nicest abode in Velen.

But that gets Yennefer thinking. Kovir is a thoroughly neutral state, so the laments of Temeria should bother them little. Why have they sent Triss here to help? Perhaps they don’t have such a fierce influence on their mages as Nilfgaard does? But Triss isn’t just any sorceress; why has the King’s advisor been allowed to abandon post and come down here?

“Please, make yourselves comfortable.” Triss invites them in.

“Aye, don’t mind if I do.” Zoltan sits down on the cushions. “Say, Triss, if you ever need work doin' in Kovir, send me a letter.”

It’s something of a relief to be separated from the outside village in this way. A convenient barrier, shielding them from the bleak lands of Velen and the Crone’s unnerving powers. A superficial barrier, but a barrier nonetheless. Regis must feel the same, for he looks more relaxed inside the shelter of the tent. Ameer sits quietly next to him, taking in his surroundings with curiosity.

However, Shani and Witold have very different reactions. Both sit at the edge of the group, nearest the exit. Shani looks awkward, as if wishing she was outside with the rotting vegetables and sick villagers instead. Witold simply looks uncomfortable, just like when Dulla gave him all that food. Does something about luxury and comfort put him on edge?

“Well, let’s get the obvious question out of the way.” Yennefer leans forwards. “What is the King of Kovir’s advisor doing all the way in Temeria? In Velen, of all places?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ameer tap on Regis’s shoulder and ask something quietly. Regis gives a hushed explanation – probably where Kovir resides, what sort of kingdom it is. Ameer never had a particularly good knowledge of the northern kingdom’s geography.

“I’m assuming you’ve noticed, but Velen isn’t in a particularly good place right now.” Triss leans back. “It never was, but whatever progress it was making after war ended and Temeria got independence has halted. Monster attacks started getting more frequent. Then the crops started failing. They thought it was just blight, and burnt the affected crops. But it kept on spreading. When they called in herbalists and mages to try and deal with it, they all failed. Temerian mages tried, Nilfgaardian mages tried, they even brought in mages from the lands they conquered – Redania, Aedirn, Kaedwin. You name it. Nothing has helped.” She shakes her head. “Things aren’t good. Winter’s coming, and the villagers have no crops. Just to top things off, a food relief shipment sent from Vizima was attacked and stolen, apparently by the Scoia’tael. I have a feeling my stay here is going to be much longer than I intended.”

“Scoia’tael? Are they sure about that?” Yennefer asks. “I was told there are very few of them left.”

“That’s true.” Triss nods. “There are some units still active in the Continent, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was just racist speculation between all the villagers.”

“Oh, are we gonna have trouble here?” Zoltan asks, sharing a glance with Ameer.

“Since you’re in a group with other humans, perhaps not. It might be a different story if you were by yourselves, though. I mean, this is Velen, it’s a land made up of suspicious and superstitious people.”

“A sad inevitability, then?” Ameer finishes her thoughts with a sombre expression.

“Yes. As for _this_ village specifically…I don’t know. It’s hard to get a read on them sometimes.” Triss frowns thoughtfully. “There are very few elves living in Velen to begin with – you could count them on one hand. Apparently, there was some altercation that happened between the elves and the Crones a long time ago – hundreds of years, maybe – and I’ve heard a few of the older village members complain about it. Something about a mass exodus, and the elves burning up their statues. But honestly? I think that’s just a flimsy excuse to try and justify their own bigotry. They’d find some other reason if they needed to.”

Ameer nods knowingly. “I think that is very astute, Miss Merigold.”

“So that’s why you’re here?” Yennefer asks. “To solve this blight, and fix a potential Scoia’tael problem?”

“It’s more the blight than the Scoia’tael, to be honest – that’s just an added complication. Kovir decided to send some mages as a gesture of good will to the other northern kingdoms. The first few they sent failed, returned with no news or progress. So I volunteered to go. I used to work for Temeria, after all.”

Still, Yennefer finds herself unsatisfied with this explanation. Triss is the King’s advisor. The most important position a sorceress can have. Would they really let her leave, for a mission that had no actual impact on their country? Send her right to the middle of a hostile, foreign country renowned for invading others?

Something isn’t right here. Her experience lends itself to her instinct. Something more is going on here, something political. She can sense it. Without meaning to, she glances at Ameer’s neck, where the medallion is hidden. If they stay here, is Geralt’s soul going to be put in danger? Before Yennefer has a chance to probe further, the entrance between tents opens.

“Lady Merigold, the results are back –” A man stands in the doorway. His neatly combed brown hair, clean shaven face, and wide brown eyes give him a youthful look, though the proudly displayed Koviri pin on the lapel of his elegant burgundy coat means this is not just some random student. Upon seeing the guests, he falters.

“I’m sorry, is this not a good time?” He asks, looking around almost timidly.

“No, Kilian, it’s fine.” Triss beckons him over, taking the scrolls of parchment from him. “Don’t be shy. Introduce yourself.”

He nods respectfully, and stands up straight. “My name is Kilian Novak. I’m a graduate of Ban Ard. It’s nice to meet you all.”

Yennefer looks him up and down. Interesting. The same school Tye most likely graduated from.

“I assume you’re here about the crop blight, too?” She asks him.

He nods eagerly. “Yes. Lady Merigold is teaching me more advanced skills to further my career in magic.” So she has herself a little protegee, then. And the reason for two tents is explained – the smaller one is his own living quarters. He points to the writing on the parchment.

“All negative, just as you suspected.” He tells her.

She nods sombrely, rolling up the parchment. “Thank you, Kilian. You’ve done a good job. How about you go and check with Casmir for anymore tasks they need us for?”

“Right away, Lady Merigold!” Trying not to look too happy at her praise, he leaves the tent – only to instantly back up in a panic. “Lady Merigold! There’s a –”

Juru bounds into the tent. He has no time to cast a spell before she jumps up, putting her paws on his shoulders and giving his face a thorough sniff. He falls backwards from the weight of her, and she happily trots along, thrusting her face into one of their bags.

“Shit!” Triss begins casting a spell, but Yennefer grabs her arm.

“No, she’s friendly!” Yennefer explains hastily. “She won’t attack.”

Bewildered, Triss looks back at the wolf. She extinguishes the spell. “How on earth is she not…Is she tame?” She takes a step back as Juru trots over to her, sniffing her boots interestedly. To save her from being pestered, Ameer whistles. Juru pricks up her ears and scampers over to him.

“No. She does what she wants.” He answers unhelpfully but entirely earnestly, stroking her head.

“She won’t attack you. Though she might try to lick your face.” Yennefer warns her.

“Right.” Triss looks a little confused, but she takes it in her stride. She helps Kilian to his feet, who brushes off his clothes, looking embarrassed. “You’d best be careful in this village with your…friend. The villagers might try to attack her if they see her. There have been plenty of wolf attacks here.”

“Oh dear.” Ameer frowns. “But I do not want to her to be all alone with the Crone’s monsters in the forest…How about she stays with us inside our lodgings?”

“Hm.” Yennefer purses her lips.

“We can sneak her in!”

“I don’t know…”

Triss is still staring at the wolf. She looks at Juru’s chest, where the symbol protecting her from the Crone is still visible.

“Kilian, could you give us a moment please?” She asks, not taking her eyes off of Juru.

“Yes of course.” He bows his head and leaves. 

Triss looks at Ameer with that observant gleam to her eyes. “You said she’d be all alone with the Crone’s monsters. You know about her and her thrall?”

He points to the symbol on Juru, then loosens his clothes and pulls his tunic down slightly to show her the mark on his own chest, taking care not to reveal the medallion in the process. “More than that. I performed a spell to protect her from the Crone’s thrall.”

Triss nods thoughtfully as she takes in this information, fingers twiddling with her gold and turqoise necklace. “You know a lot about the Crone.”

“As much as anyone does.” Yennefer observes her carefully. “This blight – surely you must have figured out that no fungus could cause this amount of damage? Surely you know that someone else is responsible?”

Triss nods grimly. “I’m certain the last Crone that escaped from Ciri is behind this. Are you interested in the Crone too? Why are you here?” She looks across the group. The question is so clearly on her lips, but she doesn’t want to ask.

In a sudden surge of pride, Yennefer decides not to answer that unspoken question. If Triss wants to know where Geralt is, she can ask herself.

Instead, she folds her arms. “I suppose it’s our turn to explain why we’re in Velen, then. We’re looking for a man. Calls himself Tye, has a scar on his forehead that he conceals with a red strip of cloth. A mage, possibly Kaedwenian. You haven’t spoken to him, have you? You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s gone?”

Triss shakes her head. Of course not. That would be too easy.

“We know he was looking for the Crone.” Regis explains. “In fact, we know he found her. Then he teleported from Velen, to who knows where. That’s why we need to find the Crone.”

As she listens, Triss nods thoughtfully. “I see. That’s…unfortunate. I don’t think the Crone will be very willing to help any of you. But why do you need to find this man? What’s he done?”

Before any other members of her group can speak – especially Zoltan – Yennefer answers. “He’s a dangerous man. He created a giant crystal golem that almost destroyed Oxenfurt. Many people almost died – Ameer and I could have died in our attempts to bring it down, too. We’re searching for him, to bring him to justice.”

Neither Regis nor Ameer react to her false explanation. They must simply assume she’s being cautious. But she can feel Zoltan’s surprised stare on her. Wondering why she’s lied to her old friend. She hopes he won’t give the lie away.

Triss hesitates. At long last, the question comes out.

“…May I ask, where’s Geralt? Is he still in Toussaint?”

Yennefer ignores Zoltan’s stare. “No. He’s in Skellige with Ciri. We were all meeting there when I was called to Novigrad.”

“Oh.” Triss sounds surprised. “And he stayed in Skellige?”

“He and Ciri are following up a lead there. The An Craite family have always liked Geralt, so we decided he’d be of more use there.”

“I see.” Triss’s voice is entirely neutral. She’s clearly sceptical of what Yennefer’s told her, but Yennefer doesn’t think she’s entirely seen through her lie – or rather, she has no reason to suspect what really happened.

“Anyway, it’s vital we track down Tye.” Yennefer continues, quickly moving on the conversation. “Unfortunately, that means finding the Crone. Not a task we particularly want to do, especially seeing the state of Velen now. From the looks of this blight, she’s certainly been growing in power these past four years.”

Though not entirely ready to move on from that conversation, Triss nods. “It’s not just the blight. The monster attacks are becoming more frequent too, and animals are either becoming scarce or downright hostile. I’ve been trying to tell my superiors that a little bit of agricultural science isn’t going to clear things up, but I don’t think they believe the stories about the Crones. Most people outside of Velen think they’re just legends and old wives’ tales. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous it will be – do you even know where to find her?”

“The orphanage.” Witold answers her. “That’s our destination.”

“The orphanage?”

“South of Reardon Manor and Downwarren, in the heart of the swamps. There’s a collection of about four houses, all together. That’s where she lives. I’ve been there many times with the locals.”

“You have?” Triss stands up excitedly. “We should set off as soon as possible, then. All of us together, I’m sure we could take her down.”

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The villagers in Crookback Bog have been to the orphanage countless times and Weavess has never once appeared.” Yennefer explains. “Ciri tried to find her, too. She didn’t show herself. The only person who has successfully seen her these past four years was Tye, and we have no idea how.”

Triss chews her lip, disappointed. “Damn it…I guess that would’ve been too easy…” Sighing, she sits back down, distractedly batting away Juru’s head as the wolf attempts to eat her sleeves. “…You saw that pile of vegetables. The blight is getting worse and worse. And the people of Crookback Bog are…stubborn, to put it kindly. They don’t want to leave, even though they’re going to starve. But if the Crone were to die, then I’m certain the blight will stop. That’s what I’m trying to tell my superiors, but none of them believe me about the Crone. I thought, maybe I could try and handle it myself…but if the Crone isn’t even showing herself, then I don’t know what to do. And you don’t have any idea how to lure her out?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Wait.” Witold speaks up, a frown on his face. “You don’t know? I assumed you’d already figured that out.”

“We haven’t, not yet. But we will.”

Witold folds his arms. “Well, I’m not bringing you to the orphanage just to hang around. It’s far too dangerous. We need to be in and out of there in one day if we want everyone to come back in one piece. If you don’t know how to lure her out, then I _strongly_ advise we stay here until you do.” He looks between Yennefer and Triss. “You both want the same thing, and the more people working together, the easier it’ll be. You know what – I don’t just strongly advise it, I insist. We stay here until you have a guaranteed way of luring her out.”

The others all murmur in agreement at this plan. It seems perfectly logical, after all. Triss is a mage from a very wealthy country. She’ll have all sorts of equipment and resources perfect for figuring out how to lure out the Crone.

So Yennefer bites back her unease. She doesn’t particularly like the sound of this, but she can’t exactly argue against it, either. If Witold says so – the man they’re paying to keep them alive in Velen – then she should probably listen. Even if she really, really doesn’t want to. So she silences the doubts inside of her, and smiles along with it.

She can’t communicate the reason for her discomfort right in front of Triss. Not Triss Merigold herself, but Triss Merigold, the king of Kovir’s advisor. Why is Kovir so interested in the blight? Why have they sent Triss here? The more Yennefer thinks about it, the more certain she becomes. Something really isn’t right here.

And her unease has absolutely nothing to do with all the other strange feelings churning in her chest whenever she looks at Triss’s smile. Absolutely nothing, she tells herself sternly. Nothing at all.

Regardless, she remains silent, and smiles along with the idea. “That does sound logical.”

“I was planning on trying out some hydromancy again. I’ve done it once before here, using a well near the village, but I failed to locate the Crone.” Triss explains. “But if you were there helping me, Yenna, then we might be able to figure out where she hides in the orphanage, or how to lure her out.”

Yennefer smiles a perfectly genuine smile. “That sounds like a good plan.” But already, dread is rising up inside of her. Just what is Triss hiding?

As they leave the tent, reaching a safe distance well out of ear-shot, Zoltan grabs Yennefer’s arm.

“What the hell was that?” He demands.

The rest of the group turns to look in surprise, but Yennefer waves them on.

“We’ll catch up later.” She tells them.

It’s Shani who ushers them away. Most likely she’s figured one key detail out – if she knows Triss, she might have known about Triss’s relationship with Geralt. And she knows that Geralt and Yennefer are currently together. With those two pieces of information, it’s easy to identify the cause of the tensions in the air.

“Why did you lie to Triss?” Zoltan asks when they’ve moved their conversation to the outskirts of the village, far away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

“We lied to Shani.” Yennefer replies simply. “And to Witold.”

“This is different. You don’t even know Shani, and Witold is a complete stranger to us all, but Triss? She’s a friend of mine, yours, and Geralt’s. Why did you lie to her?”

Yennefer glances back at the tent in the distance. “Before I tell her anything, I want to know why she’s here. Why she’s _really_ here.”

“What are you talkin' 'bout?”

“She’s hiding something about why she’s in this village. You know as well as I do that Kovir and Poviss are entirely neutral states. Even if they sent someone to help with the blight, I highly doubt they’d send the king’s advisor.”

Zoltan falters. “You’re not seriously suggesting that she’s here doing something…dangerous? Something bad?”

“Not something bad. Something political.” Yennefer emphasises. “She’s in Nilfgaardian territory, an empire that’s already swallowed up most of the north. Don’t you think it would make sense to send a mage to keep an eye on their neighbours who have an awful tendency to invade others? A high-ranking mage with the authority to make orders and call on troops should things suddenly go south? One that the Nilfgaardians couldn’t harm without triggering hostility from Kovir?”

Zoltan sighs, conflicted by her logic. “I know…But distrustin' Triss?”

“Who said I was distrusting her? I would care little for whatever political escapades she’s getting up to – but Geralt changes things. Remember, if that medallion breaks, it’s over. Everything’s over and all our hard work was for naught. I can’t risk us getting involved in anymore drama than necessary; we’ve had far too many near misses already, especially after that river incident. The Crone is enough to worry about. And Geralt didn’t exactly leave with an abundance of Nilfgaardian allies.” She points out. “If the Nilfgaardians were to find out about Geralt, they might take the opportunity to kill him, or use him as leverage against Triss and, consequently, Kovir.” Back in Novigrad, Bedlam forced Yennefer into a corner, figured out something was wrong and pushed her to reveal what happened. She’s very, very lucky that Bedlam was fond of Geralt and didn’t use this information for malicious purposes. But there are plenty of people in Nilfgaard who wouldn’t be so pacifistic. She cannot be hasty in what she reveals.

Honestly, she doesn’t want to stay in this village. If there is something going on – and there certainly is, she can sense it – staying is automatically putting Geralt in harm’s way. She’d much rather ride on to Downwarren, leave Ameer and Geralt safely in an inn, and continue their journey to the orphanage. But Witold is right; there’s no point riding down to the orphanage if the Crone refuses to show herself. And as much as she hates to admit it, Triss could help them figure out how to overcome this obstacle.

Zoltan watches her carefully. “You’re sure that’s the only reason?”

“What, you think I’m doing it out of spite?” She retorts, not needing to read his mind to know what he’s thinking. “Have you forgotten that I called her from Kovir to Kaer Morhen to help fight against the Wild Hunt? Think what you want of me, but I’m not that petty.” Her tone is strong enough to convince Zoltan. And perhaps herself. 

He looks sheepish at her words, so she sighs. “Look. I’m going to figure out what exactly Triss is doing here. Should I decide it’s safe enough to tell her without unintended consequences, without getting our situation entangled in some political conspiracy, then I will have no qualms about telling her. But until then, we need to keep this secret.”

“Ok.” He accepts this. “…I understand. You’re just tryin' to keep Geralt safe.”

“Thank you.” She can still sense his uncertainty, but at least he understands the most important goal in this whole situation. And no matter what, he is a loyal friend to Geralt. Zoltan wouldn’t want him getting hurt.

Nevertheless, the walk back to their borrowed lodgings is somewhat awkward. Zoltan knows he’s stepping on sensitive territory here. And he’s right. Secrets and potential espionage aside, Yennefer is not exactly overflowing with joy upon seeing Triss again. It brings up a lot of complicated feelings she’d rather not deal with right now.

How did she deal with this last time? Ah, the Wild Hunt. She threw herself into protecting Ciri, at all and any cost. She’ll do the same now, but with Geralt. So while the others eat and chat, she retreats to her room in the small, dingy house they’ve been offered and delves into the books she has with her. There isn’t much space to spread out her work in the cramped room she’ll be sleeping in, with only one rickety bed, but she makes do. Besides, at least only herself and Shani will be staying in this one, while the men have the misfortune of outnumbering them and being cramped in the other. Even so, it’s better than sleeping outside.

What exactly are the Crones? She finds nothing. Why did she reveal herself to Tye, but never to the villagers who leave offerings in her orphanage? What is she doing? What is she planning? Again, books tell her nothing.

Well, books don’t hold all the answers. Word of mouth is just as important. The people in Greyrocks hated talking about the Crone, but perhaps these villagers will be more open? If they’re going to be staying in this odd place, they might as well make use of the villagers, even this late into the evening.

She decides against speaking to them alone, though. She should go and fetch Shani; the village elder seemed to know of her and like her, so she might have more luck than Yennefer will.

Quickly, she determines that Shani must be in the second bedroom with the others. When she reaches for the door handle, though, she hesitates. She can hear a conversation inside.

“What do you mean?” Zoltan is asking.

“Well, it might just be...a gap in my human understanding,” she hears Regis say, “but I couldn’t help but notice a strange atmosphere surrounding Yennefer and Miss Merigold. Am I wrong? Has my intuition of humans failed me?” Since Witold is off helping the village leader with some tasks, for an extremely low price of zero crowns, he can speak freely of his vampiric nature.

“No, no, you’re not wrong.” Zoltan tells him. “Ah…Where do I start…So, ages ago when Geralt and Yennefer died –”

“They died?!” Ameer exclaims.

“Aye. Well, no. They got better. It’s complicated. Anyway, they were on this island, and the Wild Hunt came and took Yennefer away. Geralt chased after 'em, and then traded his soul for Yennefer’s. He rode with the Wild Hunt, the Aen Elle, but after some time he escaped 'em.”

“The Aen Elle…” Ameer sounds thoughtful.

“You know them?” Regis asks.

“I know of them.” He says vaguely. Now Yennefer is very curious to hear about the vulpess opinion of the Aen Elle, but of course he says nothing in front of Shani.

“Well, after he escaped, he had amnesia. He could remember barely anythin'.”

“I remember that.” Shani recalls. “He didn’t remember me – or you, Regis. Dandelion had to remind him of your adventures. That’s why I know about you being a vampire.”

“Ah. Rather extensive amnesia, then.”

“Aye. He barely knew his own name when his brothers at the School of the Wolf found him, helped him recover.” Zoltan explains. “It was Triss who was in charge of helpin' him regain his memory. But, uh…there were certain details she left out.”

“Oh dear.” Regis has already guessed.

“Aye. You see, Triss used to have…romantic feelings towards Geralt. So when he appeared, havin' no memory of his true love or daughter, I suppose she couldn’t resist not tellin' him in hopes of them startin' a relationship. Which they did, until he remembered Yennefer. After that, they broke up, and Geralt got back together with Yennefer.”

“…I am very surprised.” Ameer speaks up after a long silence. “Miss Merigold seemed so nice. But why would she do something like that?”

“She was younger back then. More naïve. She made a mistake, and she regrets it, a lot.” Zoltan counters. “All of us have made mistakes. Especially when it comes to romance. But she’s grown, you know? I mean, when Geralt got accused of killing Foltest, she was one of the few people who wanted to prove his innocence. Then she helped all the mages escape Novigrad, and she helped to fight against the Wild Hunt –”

“So, she and Yennefer are enemies?” Ameer interrupts him, apparently ignoring Zoltan’s list of Triss’s good deeds. “I am confused. They seemed friendly towards each other earlier. Miss Merigold seemed happy to see her, even.”

“They’re not enemies. They’re friends. Good friends, actually. They knew each other long before either of them met Geralt.”

“But…If they were friends, _why_ would she do that?” Ameer sounds genuinely confused.

“She made a mistake. Sometimes, friends hurt each other.”

Ameer is silent at this. Yennefer wonders what he’s thinking.

“Hm. That is a truly complicated situation.” Regis speaks thoughtfully. “I understand their reaction to each other now. Thank you for explaining – I have no doubt that this is an area I should try to avoid asking about.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely a good idea.” Zoltan agrees. “I think they’ve made up, but a fight between two sorceresses is definitely not something I’d want to get involved with.”

“I do not like Miss Merigold.” Ameer says suddenly, and quite bluntly.

“Ah, come on Ameer. You don’t know her. If you get to know her, you’ll see that she’s a nice lass.” Zoltan tells him.

“Hm…no.”

Yennefer finds herself struggling to fight off a proud smile. On the one hand, she really doesn’t want any unnecessary hostility or arguments on this journey. On the other hand, it reminds her that Ameer is a truly loyal friend. She can count on him to always take her side, and that’s something she values dearly.

“How about this?” Regis interjects the conversation before anything escalates. “Ameer, you are under no obligation to like Miss Merigold. You can hate her if you so wish. But we expect you to act politely and cordially towards her during our stay in Lurtch. Is that a fair compromise?”

“But I do not want to.”

“If you’re rude to her, you might put Yennefer in an awkward position. And we don’t want that, do we?” Regis says firmly.

Ameer thinks about it. Finally, he speaks up.

“Fine. I agree to these terms.”

Yennefer best enter now, while the conversation about herself has come to a halt. Knocking first, she pushes open the door to see everyone staring at her with awkward, nervous faces.

“I was – Is something the matter?” She feigns ignorance.

“Nope. Nothin' at all.” Zoltan lies terribly.

“If you say so. Shani, I need your help to speak with some villagers. If they’re not particularly friendly towards mages, then it’ll be better if you ask the questions.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Shani stands up, looking sheepish, and pulls on her coat.

“Should we come with you?” Regis suggests.

“No, don’t worry. We’re just doing reconnaissance work. I want you and Ameer to start thinking of ways to lure the Crone out of hiding. I don’t know if the hydromancy will work.”

Ameer nods at this. “That will be a very difficult task. I think that tomorrow, I should try and experiment on the Crone and her powers. I will have to do it through her enthralled creatures, of course, but it is better than nothing. I want to see how effective my powers are against her, and if I can break any of her enchantments.”

“You’re not going to the orphanage yourself though.” Regis reminds him. “No offense intended here at all, but your powers won’t help us.”

“I may not be going to the orphanage, but I can teach Yennefer certain spells, or I can give you enchanted talismans, since you have no magic yourself.” Ameer explains. “It is the most I can do to help.”

“Ah, I see.” Regis glances up at Yennefer. “If you find out anything interesting, let us know. It might be helpful in figuring out how best to lure out Weavess.”

“Of course.” That is, if they do find out anything useful, and the villagers don’t refuse to speak with them. Having Shani with her will at least make it easier, even if Shani avoids her gaze as she follows Yennefer out of the room.

-

The walk to the village houses under the shadow of the late evening is silent and somewhat awkward – Shani no doubt hoping Yennefer hasn’t heard their conversation – but when they reach the first house, Yennefer wishes that awkward walk was much, much longer.

Unlike the people of Mulbrydale or Newmoor, the folk of Lurtch are strange, suspicious and quiet. Many outright refuse to talk to them, even with Shani asking all the questions. And when they do, the conversation goes the exact same way, right down to the last elderly woman that they speak with.

“You’re a sorceress.” They look at Yennefer.

“Is that a problem?”

A tense silence follows as tired eyes watch her suspiciously.

“I’m not a sorceress.” Shani interjects each time. “I’m just a medic. I wanted to ask some questions. Is that all right?”

“Where are you from?”

“Redania.”

Another tense silence, another suspicious stare. “…All right. Questions about what?”

“The Ladies of Crookback Bog.”

They shake their heads. “I’m sorry, miss medic. We appreciate your help, we really do. But if you want to find the Ladies, you’re too late. The Ladies are dead. And now, Velen is dying.”

That’s all. That’s all they say each time. No matter how much Shani pries, that’s all they get. The Ladies are dead. And now, Velen is dying.

“I’m sorry.” Shani whispers as they walk from yet another house, their attempts unsuccessful. “I’m not being much help.”

“It’s not your fault. These people are far less forthcoming than in Greyrocks.” They’re different in every sense of the word, in fact. Their clothing is drabber, plainer, more old-fashioned. None of the comparative wealth of Greyrocks. The inside of their houses are particularly plain, barren of many possessions or decoration. Though Yennefer realises that perhaps this isn’t because they don’t own any possessions: outside each house, Yennefer can see divots of flattened grass in a circle, as if something that was placed there that has now been removed and hidden. What? And why? The more Yennefer observes, the more questions she has.

Though one thing is clear – they are absolutely convinced that Weavess is dead. The Crone has them utterly duped.

Yennefer pulls her cloak more tightly around herself, shivering in the cold. The darkness that envelops the village and surrounding fields in the late evening unsettles her in a way it never has before. Unlike Regis and Ameer, she can see nothing beyond the houses. Just an unseen blur that rustles with the sound of swaying branches.

At least she has magic, she thinks. She can illuminate the darkness with spells of light. Shani has nothing. And that trepidation shows in the medic’s face as she looks past the houses into the invisible forests.

“Are you afraid?” Yennefer asks her.

“No.” She says it too quickly. Yennefer raises an eyebrow.

Folding her arms, Shani sighs. “…Wouldn’t you be? If you had no magic.”

“I suppose I would be. But you’ve seen death and destruction before, haven’t you? I heard you worked at the Battle of Brenna.”

Shani tightens her scarf more securely against her neck. “…I did. But that was different. It was terrible, true. Those days in that tent were some of the worst days of my life. But it was different. The human race has done plenty of terrible things, to the Elder Races and to each other, but I can handle humans. This? This is beyond my capabilities. I just…” She wrings her hands together. “What good am I against something as powerful as this Crone? Against this blight? There’s nothing I can do. You can’t always save everyone, I know that better than anyone. But I’ve never felt this helpless before. And these people, too…they’ve completely given up. Normally I would find that so sad, but…” She frowns. “Here, it’s somehow just _creepy_.”

Yennefer remembers the staring, suspicious eyes. “Yes, they are…unsettling.”

“I’ve stitched up enemies before and never felt afraid. But these people…” She looks back at the houses, concerned. “I don’t know. I’ve heard terrible things about these Crones, and these people are so _grieved_ at her death! It frightens me.”

“Well, you’re not the only one.” Yennefer smiles wryly. “You know, I was killed because of a raging mob.”

Shani’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“And they were all just simple humans. No cultists or Crone worshippers, just normal people. So I understand how you feel. I’m afraid, too.”

At this, Shani smiles. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, embarrassed. “Oh. I’m glad it’s not just me. That makes me feel better.”

Good. The air doesn’t feel so tense anymore, from the conversation that Yennefer wasn’t supposed to hear.

She’s about to suggest that they return to their lodgings, give up for night, when a blaze of heat catches her attention.

The pile of vegetables has been lit on fire, casting a sudden warmth onto her. The village is set in an orange glow that somehow manages to be more eerie than comforting; the stench of rot certainly doesn’t help matters. Over by the pile, she sees two shadowy figures standing by.

“There. Hopefully the stink will burn away with it.” One is Witold, wiping his brow. So this was the job he was doing.

The other she recognises to be Casmir, the leader of this village. He’s sitting on a cut log, staring into the flames as if it was a festival bonfire and not their crops burning away. He takes a long inhale from a wooden smoking pipe.

“Thank you, Witold.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the blaze. “That’s all I needed. Sorry to keep you out here in the cold.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll be heading in now.”

“I’ll head in myself.” However, even after Witold leaves, Casmir stays facing the burning pile. Slowly smoking a pipe, staring at the vegetables as they blacken and curl in the flames.

Hm. They didn’t get speaking to Casmir. Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming – he seemed happy to see Shani.

She’s about to walk over when a black shadow swoops down towards her. Her first instinct is to cast a spell, but when she sees a white feather amidst the normal glossy raven kind, she relaxes.

Tatanu swoops around her silently. Normally, he only goes to Regis. Is there something he wants to tell her?

Hesitantly, she holds out her arm like Regis does. With a rustle of wings, Tatanu settles on her forearm. Just like by the river, he’s a lot heavier than Yennefer expected; Regis makes it look so easy.

“What is it?” She asks. “You know I can’t understand you.”

Tatanu makes no noise. Yennefer realises it’s because he’s got a wedge of wood in his beak.

She holds out her other hand, and he drops the wood onto her palm.

While Shani tentatively reaches out her hand to stroke his feathers, a curious smile on her face, Yennefer holds the wood up to get a better look in the dim light. One of the edges is slightly singed; it must have been part of the bonfire. She can just about see something etched onto the surface, but in the darkness she can’t tell what.

She lifts her arm up, and Tatanu takes off, settling instead on Shani’s shoulder, who laughs. “Woah. He’s heavier than I thought he’d be!”

Her other hand now free, Yennefer casts a light spell, holding it up to the wood.

The knife stares back at her.

“What is it?” Shani asks, seeing Yennefer’s grim face.

“Did you get this from the bonfire, Tatanu?” She whispers.

Obviously, the raven cannot understand her, but he seems to have learnt that his name is Tatanu. Like a well-trained dog, he takes off from Shani’s shoulder and swoops back towards the bonfire. Casmir doesn’t notice as he flies around the periphery. Yennefer loses sight of him. Oh, be careful Tatanu. Don’t get burnt!

When she sees the raven flying back, she breathes out in relief. He holds another wedge of wood in his beak. This one is considerably larger, though, and his flight is somewhat clumsy from the effort of holding it. He drops it at her feet, then settles down on Yennefer’s shoulder.

Half of the wood is entirely burnt. But Yennefer can still make out the Crone’s three-way spiral, and half of a tree.

_When the blight started, a pellar across by Crowsperch performed a spell to try and see how to fix it. Do you know what he saw in the embers and bones? He saw a three way spiral bleeding. He saw a tree burning and lilies wilting. He saw a knife, the blade plunging downwards._

The three visions. The supposed evidence of Weavess’s demise.

But…why did these villagers try to destroy evidence of this vision? And what does the knife mean? She still doesn’t know.

Slowly, Yennefer begins approaching Casmir. He doesn’t hear their approach. Only when Tatanu lifts off from her shoulder in a noisy rustle of feathers, does he turn.

“Oh.” His gaze remains empty when he looks at Yennefer, but when he sees Shani, a glimmer of hope crosses his eyes. “Miss medic! What are you doin' out so late?”

“We were hoping to speak about a certain matter.” Shani explains. “And we were wondering if you could help us. But is there something you need from me?”

He sighs deeply, scratching the hair underneath his hat. “I…It’s my wife. She’s been…unwell.”

“She’s sick?”

“No…” He fiddles with his pipe. “It’s more…she isn’t sleepin'. She isn’t eatin' much – not that we’ve got much to eat, anyway. She isn’t even cryin' anymore, she’s just…it’s like she’s asleep when she’s awake, but awake when she should be asleep. It’s like she’s not there.”

Shani’s face softens in sympathy. “How long has this been going on for?”

“The past week.” His face falls. An empty sadness in his eyes. “My son, Alfie…A bear took him. She hasn’t been the same since.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Shani shakes her head sadly. “Grief isn’t a disease. There’s nothing I can do to make it go away. It has to run its natural course. I might be able to give her something for her sleep, though.”

“Thank you.” He stands up, putting his pipe back in his bag. “I’ll answer any questions to the best of my ability.”

Casmir’s house is the biggest in Lurtch, but it’s still significantly smaller than any in Greyrocks. Like most of the other houses, it’s barren and plain. Except for one specific detail: the sad blatancy of a dead child. A pair of small shoes by the doorway, a toy wooden horse on the kitchen table, a jar of sweets on the kitchen shelf. Through them, the child’s absence is painfully seen. It’s very cold. There’s no fire in the hearth.

Casmir sighs, and quickly stokes life into the fire. “Sabina, you let it die again.”

Yennefer sees a woman in a long green dress and blue shawl sitting in a chair. She’s staring out the window towards an unkept garden and wooden shed, ignoring their presence entirely. In her hands, she clutches a small knitted blanket. Her hair is tied into a tangled plait that looks as if it hasn’t been brushed in days. Heavy shadows are under her eyes, red and raw from grief, and her face is a ghostly grey in the dark. If not for her gentle breathing, and the occasional blink, Yennefer could mistake her for a corpse.

When she does not stir, does not even react to her husband’s voice, Casmir sighs deeply. He sits down by the fire. He does not move to try and console his wife, provides no words of comfort. Shani wordlessly goes to sit in front of the woman.

“Sabina? I’m Shani. I want to say, I’m really sorry about what happened to your son.” Shani touches her hand lightly.

The woman finally draws her gaze away from the window. But when she looks at Shani, her gaze is still empty. She doesn’t respond.

“…What do you want to know?” Casmir asks Yennefer hoarsely, his voice barely audible.

“We want to know about the Ladies.” Yennefer wastes no time in getting to the point.

Casmir stares at her. His blue eyes, though tired, pierce her with ferocity. “Where are you from?”

“Aedirn. Why?”

He thinks about this. “…Why does a sorceress from Aedirn want to know about the Ladies?”

“Someone we want was interested in them. What can you tell me?”

“Well, you’re too late to seek 'em. They’re all dead. And our land is dyin'.”

“That’s what everyone else has told me. In Greyrocks, too.”

At this, his expression becomes one of scorn. “Greyrocks? Forgive me, but I don’t give a single shite about them lot.”

“Aren’t they your fellow countrymen?” Yennefer points out.

“They’re not affected by the blight – by the Ladies’ death – like we are. And the lot of 'em are heretics. Turnin' their backs on the Ladies, pretendin' like they never existed, after everythin' the Ladies did to protect them…Disgraceful. They’re not Veleners anymore.”

“And you dislike people who aren’t Veleners?” Yennefer asks.

He squirms. “Well, that’s a bit of a strong word. But…people like you, or like that Miss Merigold, you just don’t understand our ways.”

He hasn’t mentioned Ameer, though, Yennefer realises. Despite being very blatantly a foreigner, Casmir seems to have forgotten about him. The same goes for Zoltan – both members of the Elder Races, a group that apparently the villagers here dislike, yet his focus is almost entirely on Triss instead. How strange.

Casmir hesitates. “You…You’re friends with that Miss Merigold, right? I saw you speakin’.”

“That’s right.” Again, she feels a twist of doubt in her stomach, sharp enough in its intensity to give Yennefer pain.

So embroiled in her own uncertainty, she almost misses the way Casmir’s face tightens with suspicion. Almost. “Why? Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all.” He says evenly – the deception in his voice is surprisingly masterful, but his face gives him away. “We’re glad to have her here helpin’, after all, even if it won’t do much good. She helped out Polly and Maryska when they were grievin’, too. She’s a kind lady, that Miss Merigold.”

Yennefer reads his mind.

_Better not trust her, either_.

Why? What is he hiding?

A cold hand grabs her arm, pulling her attention away from Casmir. His wife has broken from her silent, sleepless paralysis. She still looks weak, tired, frail, yet her grip is like iron.

“Pretty lady.” Her voice is hoarse, but surprisingly stern. “Lovely black locks. My daughter might’ve looked like you one day, had whoopin' cough not taken her at three years old. Lily, her name was.” She leans back in her chair, though does not relinquish her grip on Yennefer. Her gaze travels to Shani. “And you, with your hair like flames…you remind me of a story.”

She pulls at Yennefer’s arm. “Lily, come sit. Bring your brother, too. Mama’s goin’ to tell a story.”

Behind her, Yennefer sees Casmir’s posture sag. “Sabina…Lily and Alfie ain’t here no more.”

She ignores him. “Come sit by me, Lily. Listen to Mama’s story.”

“I’d better take her to bed.” Casmir says, defeatedly. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Listen to my story.” Sabina repeats. Her voice is embellished with an airy, absent-minded tone, but Yennefer recognises it is false. There is a fierce, burning determination in her eyes.

This woman may be entrenched in grief, but she has not lost her wits. She knows neither her deceased daughter nor son are here.

What does she want to tell Yennefer?

“We can take her to bed.” Shani suggests. Clearly, she’s noticed it too. “I want to make sure she’s properly resting.”

Casmir hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. And speaking to us might help soothe her. Really, it’s no trouble.” Shani insists.

“…All right.” Casmir agrees at last. However, he doesn’t leave them. As Yennefer and Shani gently escort the frail, alarmingly thin woman to her bed, Casmir hovers behind them. And when Shani helps tuck Sabina into her bed, Casmir takes a seat outside of the room. Out of view, but still very much within earshot. Any open conversations will not be possible, it seems.

Sabina is not perturbed, though. Sitting in the bed, she stares out of the window. “Would you like to hear the story?”

“Go on. I’d love to hear it.” Yennefer urges her.

“…Long, long ago, the mother of this land, She-Who-Knows, became lonely. So lonely, that sadness struck her like a mortal wound. So one day, she crafted three daughters from the blood and flesh of the land.”

She-Who-Knows and the creation of the Crones. Jemima mentioned this before.

“They lived happily for some time. But one day, somethin' changed. And that mother changed. To this day, no one knows why. Maybe she was jealous of her own daughters. Maybe someone poisoned her, cursed her, out of their jealousy towards her. Or maybe time itself unravelled her mind as she grew impossibly great in age. No one knows. But her madness was made known to all those in Velen. Men went about murderin' each other, settin' off into the swamps to drown in muck or die at the hands of rabid monsters. Gentle plant-eatin' animals started feastin' upon meat, while the wolves and bears and foxes starved themselves in their dens. Even the plants seem to revel in this madness, growin' so wild and thick that one could get lost in their thorns and never return. All infected with the madness of the mother. Her daughters tried to stop her, but she was a wily one, she was. All their tricks and traps failed, outsmarted by their powerful mother. And so, Velen ran red with blood, and the mother’s tyranny continued.

“At that time, in a village just outside the swamps, there lived a hunter. He was a good, kind man who provided for his village and worshipped the kindly Ladies. A handsome man with hair like flames,” she gestures to Shani, “just like yours. He was beloved by all the village. But beauty comes with misfortune, too. While walkin' through the swamps, searchin' for a wretched soul who had been gripped with the mother’s madness and wandered off, he was found by She-Who-Knows. She had been lurkin' in the swamps, impatient for spring and searchin' for new sacrifices and prey. When she saw him, though, she was struck by his beauty. In that moment, she decided to make him hers, and whisked him away to her lair. Here, she kept him and, in her madness, fell in love with the hunter who clearly did not love her back. But the hunter was wise. He understood that, if She-Who-Knows was not stopped, the whole of Velen would fall to death and darkness. So, instead of trying to escape, he stayed and charmed the mother. Blinded by infatuation, She-Who-Knows fell deeper into love with him. When he asked for jewels, she brought him jewels. Gold, she’d bring him gold. No task was too great. And so, when he asked for her weakness, she told him.

“As he listened to her weakness, he realised he could save Velen from its doom by deliverin' this information to the Crones. A dangerous task – when She-Who-Knows realised he had betrayed her, no doubt she would kill him. But the hunter knew that this could be the only way to defeat her. A few nights before the spring equinox, he managed to sneak away from her lair. He ran to the Ladies and told them of their mother’s weakness. The Ladies were impressed – with this knowledge, they could stop their mother’s tyranny once and for all.

“But She-Who-Knows found out about this betrayal. And although the Ladies tried to protect this brave soul, they underestimated her cunning. Transformin' into a gust of wind, she whispered a word of evil madness into his ear, something so incomprehensibly abhorrent that he lost his mind and perished. But his sacrifice was not in vain; only three days later, at the springtime sabbath, the Ladies were able to put a stop to her cruel tyranny once and for all. In honour of the hunter who had listened to their mother’s secret, without which her defeat would’ve been impossible, they exalted him and named him He-Who-Listened.”

So He-Who-Listened was a martyr of sorts? Hm. Geralt never mentioned this clearly important figure, and neither did Ciri. She keeps what Johnny told Ameer in mind – that the Crones lie for their own advantage, and most stories about them are untrustworthy. Though Yennefer wonders what they’d gain from spreading this story, if it truly is inaccurate: after all, it somewhat diminishes their own power by sharing the glory with He-Who-Listened.

Sabina isn’t finished, though. When her voice lowers, when she leans forwards, Yennefer realises that what she really wanted to say is coming.

“To kill their mother was one task, but to keep her soul bound and imprisoned in the cold realms of death and banishment was an even more difficult task. To do this, they unweaved, unthreaded, and unwound the chains of life. They imbued their blade with the blood of sacrifice, and took a knife upon the chain –”

A knife? The same knife that Jemima and the pellar saw in their visions?

“Sabina.”

Casmir stands in the doorway, looking incensed. His fist is clenched and shaking. “What’re you doing?”

Instantly, the determination fades from her eyes. Her words die. She leans back in her bed, staring out across the fields once more. Resuming the appearance of a ghost.

“You need to leave.” Casmir says heatedly.

“I’m sorry. Did we do something wrong?” Shani asks.

“My wife needs to rest. Please.”

“We can help if you’d like –”

“No!” He shouts. “I…Please. I can handle this. But you really should leave.”

Yennefer glances back at Sabina. They were close to uncovering something there. But what? What can’t she say in front of Casmir?

For a second, Sabina glances back at Yennefer. Her gaze piercing once more.

And Yennefer reads her mind.

_The Ritual of Rebirth._

What does that mean? Yennefer wishes she could stay and ask more. But to remain here any longer would be foolish, so it is with great reluctance that Yennefer follows Shani out of the house.

As they leave, Yennefer looks back at Casmir one more time. What is he hiding? Those wood carvings in the fire, with the Crone’s visions on them – why would he feel the need to burn them? Dispose of the evidence?

She reads his mind for a brief second before they’re ushered away.

_They can’t know. They can’t find out._

“What was that about?” Shani asks in the safety of outside. “What do you think she was trying to tell you?”

“The Ritual of Rebirth.” Yennefer repeats. “Have you heard of it before?”

“No. What is it?”

“I wish I knew myself.” Yennefer stares into the still burning pile. “Whatever it is, they don’t want outsiders to know.” That worries her. What are they hiding?

She pinches the bridge of her nose. They’ve decided to stay here, but Yennefer is beginning to regret that decision. All these secrets hiding in the village, between these strange Veleners and Triss…

Triss. She’d almost forgotten entirely about her. But as soon as Yennefer’s gaze falls upon the tent, all those twisted feelings and worries come flooding back.

Just why is Triss here? Why is the King of Kovir’s advisor all the way here in Velen? What is she hiding?

Shani notices her looking at the tent. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine. Come, I’ll walk you back to our lodging.”

Shani doesn’t move, though. “Did you want to go speak to Triss?”

“…I don’t know. There are a couple more questions I’d like to ask her, but perhaps this isn’t the best time.” She smiles wryly. “I have no intention of going to fight with her, if that’s what you’re thinking, after what Zoltan told you.”

“Oh. Did you hear all that?” Shani asks sheepishly.

“Only snippets.” Yennefer lies. “I understand Zoltan was regaling certain tales for you?”

“Yes. Though I assume there are still some details I’m missing.”

“Undoubtedly. Though I think that’s more due to his knowledge being incomplete – as far as narrators go, he seems to have recounted the stories more…reliably than certain others have in the past. Why don’t I fill you in on the rest in our room? It’s getting late, and I don’t have any intention of staying out here with these villagers.”

Once more, Shani looks somewhat awkward. But she nods. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

It’s a relief to be back in their room, cut off from the cold darkness outside and the strange villagers. It’s far less cramped than the men’s room, too. Only Yennefer and Shani are sharing this room, after all.

“I didn’t realise you were captured by the Wild Hunt.” Shani sits down. “Until everything that happened in Skellige, I didn’t even know it was real.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about the whole experience. All I remember is a blur. And when I was freed, I still don’t remember much. I had lost my memories, you see. Physically, I was a mess too. Almost at death’s door, but I pulled through somehow.” She frowns, trying to recall the events. “Even so, things are still a little…fuzzy, shall we say. I remember being in Nilfgaard, being escorted by three witchers from the School of the Viper. I think one of them was Letho – the one who killed the northern kings about five years ago. I remember us sneaking around Nilfgaard, and I remember being a bloody difficult patient.” Though she would never admit it, she was scared. She was missing so much in her memory, and was surrounded by three strangers; three strong, violent and largely apathetic men. She was still weak from her time with the Hunt. In that situation, she had no power or control – which she tried to hide with recklessly erratic behaviour. “But we got caught. The Nilfgaardian mages returned my memories – and scanned them without my permission, I must add – and after that, I was kept in prison. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

“I can imagine.” Shani shakes her head. “I hear Nilfgaardian prisons can be very cruel.”

“Indeed, and I was one of the luckier ones. Worst of all was the frustration. The last I saw of Geralt was him offering himself to the Wild Hunt. I needed to get out, find him. But I remained in prison for some time, until Emperor Emhyr himself released me. He wanted my help to find Ciri.”

“What about Geralt?” Shani asks. “Did you go and find him?”

Yennefer smiles bitterly. “I was going to. Until I found out he was shagging my good friend Triss Merigold. Not looking for me, not a care in the world about where I was and my fate. I didn’t know he had amnesia at that time, but it was a hurtful blow, I must admit.”

Shani nods solemnly. “That does sound horrible.”

“But I wasn’t going to waste time on tears. My daughter was in trouble. I decided Geralt could come and find me, when he was tired of playing around with Triss. In the meantime, I tried to search for Ciri. Used every spell and charm I could think of, asked every mage who was at least slightly trustworthy.” That included, of course, Ameer. Had he been there during the Battle of Kaer Morhen, things may have gone very differently – perhaps Vesemir might’ve survived the attack. But fate would not have allowed it to be so easy: when Yennefer sent a letter requesting his aid to his house in the city, and the hospital in which he worked, she got a response from his neighbour informing her that he was away in the mountains with his family. Of course, even if there had been time to send another letter – each letter back and forth would take two weeks minimum to arrive, since Ameer does not use megascopes or portals – Yennefer would have no idea where to send the letter to. Ameer’s vulpess family obviously do not have a registered address, when most of the world doesn’t even know of their existence. When Ameer finally returned to his city abode, the whole ordeal was already over. A terrible shame; things would have gone a lot more smoothly had he been there, and Yennefer was left to scramble for other allies to rely on. She even resorted to contacting members of the Lodge, mainly Fringilla.

“This went on for another few months, until the Wild Hunt tracked me down again. After that, I couldn’t use magic.” It had been a very frustrating development. Even had she used a djinn’s magic to bring Ciri to her, that would have simply been a huge beacon for the Wild Hunt to come and find them, and try to steal Ciri’s power. “So I wrote to Geralt, who had broken up with Triss. We decided to meet at last. It didn’t exactly go to plan, but we were finally reunited.” Yennefer looks at Shani, who has been sitting sheepishly this entire time. “May I ask something, Shani?”

“Of course.”

“Did you sleep with Geralt?”

Shani tries to keep her face blank. “And if I did?”

Yennefer smiles, sitting down on the bed. “I was just curious. You seemed quite nervous around me, and I assumed that would be why. And Geralt will fuck anything, as long as it has a pretty face.”

“That’s true.” Shani agrees, though she still looks very wary. “You want to know how? When? How many times?”

“No, not really.” Yennefer watches Shani carefully. “I’m more interested in why neither of you pursued that relationship.”

Shani sighs. She still looks uncomfortable, but she speaks up. “It must’ve been about six years ago now when we…It was when he was in Vizima, when all that chaos with the Salamandra was kicking off. But we broke up after that. Geralt is a good friend, but our relationship never worked. Never will work. We’re not compatible. I made my peace with that, and I’ve moved on. He’s just a friend, and I’m perfectly happy for it to stay that way. Besides,” she adds, “I’m a non-magic, mortal human and he’s almost one hundred years old. I don’t think it would’ve worked in the long run.”

Yennefer nods slowly. Though nervous, Shani’s words seem genuine. She isn’t in love with Geralt. There’s no embarrassment to her eyes that’s she’s desperately trying to hide. No blush around her cheeks. Yennefer decides to believe her on the matter.

“Are you angry? That I slept with him?” Shani asks.

“No. Why would I be? You and I have never met before, we didn’t know each other during whatever relationship you had with Geralt.” Unlike a certain red-haired sorceress. “So, no. I feel no resentment towards you. Just relief, I suppose.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“I’m sorry.” Yennefer stands up. “I didn’t come here to interrogate you. And I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

Shani smiles. “Well, it’s better to communicate, isn’t it? Get everything out in the open instead of people stewing on it and second guessing each other.”

“A fair point.” Yennefer agrees. “Though I do have another question. How do you and Triss know each other?”

Shani grimaces. “Oh…It was back then, about six years ago. I’m not particularly proud of my behaviour back then. We didn’t exchange kind words. She was condescending and scornful towards me, I was bratty and bitchy towards her.” She admits. “Honestly, I feel so embarrassed whenever I think about it. Fighting over a man like that, too, it was so petty of us. I’d like to think I’ve matured since then.” She hesitates. “You two both seem to be good friends.”

“Are you surprised?” Yennefer asks.

“Honestly? A little. If that had been my friend, I would be angry.”

“Well. I suppose we have a complicated relationship.” Yennefer says, not elaborating further on the matter. Why isn’t she angry? That question would open up a tangled mess of thoughts and feelings, and she has more important things to worry about.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no.” Yennefer waves her hand. “It’s bound to come up in conversation, I’m afraid. Honestly, I’d rather focus on the more important matters we have at hand.”

Shani looks at Yennefer, and any nervousness she had before is completely gone. Smiling, she offers out her hand.

“I don’t want to quarrel over men. This mission of yours to find the Crone is going to be difficult enough without wasting time over things like that. We should be friends instead.” She offers.

Yennefer smiles, and shakes Shani’s hand firmly. “You’re right. I have no desire to quarrel with you. A friendship sounds much more appealing.” True, this woman had romantic relations with Geralt. But Yennefer has only known Shani for a few days. What happened in her past makes very little difference to Yennefer. There was no trust to betray, no friendship to ruin. So it didn’t matter, especially since Shani seems to have no interest in pursuing Geralt further.

Which is what makes it so difficult as Yennefer tries to fall asleep, mind fraught with uncertainty. Shani's right. She should be angrier. But anger is too simple - Triss is her friend, after all. And there's so much that hasn't been said.

Had Triss been any woman, one Yennefer didn’t know like Shani, then the situation would be easy. Had Triss been a woman Yennefer didn’t like and wasn’t friends with, like Sabrina or Philippa, then the situation would be easy.

But they do know each other, and they were friends. Her conversation with Shani has just brought that fact right to the forefront of her mind. It’s getting more and more difficult to push those unpleasant thoughts back, force them into nothingness, lock them away.

And Triss seems completely oblivious to it, too. Otherwise, she surely would have mentioned it by now. At the very least, the discomfort and awkwardness would be obvious on her face. But it’s not. She shouldn’t be so pleased to see Yennefer; she should be upset, or embarrassed, or perhaps even angry. Yet she’s not. Why?

She doesn’t know. And that upsets her. But neither does she want to know. She doesn't want to delve into this complicated web of hurt feelings, of a friendship turned sour. She doesn't want to deal with the anger and betrayal, or the sadness, or any of it. And yet, she’s desperate to know what Triss is feeling, or rather why she’s _not_ feeling the same way Yennefer is. Not knowing, not wanting to know – she's at a vicious stalemate with herself. And whenever she looks upon Triss's smiling face – so at ease, not sharing a single lick of the turmoil Yennefer is in – that stalemate only becomes more painfully apparent, and more increasingly difficult to ignore.

Regardless, she tries to force herself to sleep; she wants to wake up at the crack of dawn and get to work tomorrow – but her mind is awake and alert with confused doubt. She hates this so much, fretting like a child. It’s by some miracle she forces herself to sleep, but her dreams are chaotic and stressful, waking her up frequently.

At one point, she dreams of Nilfgaard. Not of that terrible time being held in prison, nor of her pardon when she reluctantly worked for Emhyr. She dreams of 40 years ago, when she dabbled in a mess of local conspiracies and assassination in a foolish search for tissue restoration research funding. Of course, it amounted to nothing – as she should’ve known it would – but she was too desperate and stubborn to accept it at the time.

She dreams, and remembers the choking feeling of a dimeritium bomb, burning her throat, causing her eyes to water. She remembers the pressing sensation against her throat, the pain, the desperate need for breath. She remembers the man’s spitting curses as he strangled her, shouting “you bitch!” as his comrade lay still on the floor, body charred and smoking gently from her blast of lightning. She’d gone to chase a lead, alone. Ameer had discovered a meeting between a spy and employer he had wanted to eavesdrop on, in hopes it would lead him to who hired assassinations on his patient and a nurse working under him. But Yennefer was impatient – rather than wait for him, she had decided to follow up her own lead by herself. Alone, she had tailed her suspect to an old warehouse. But he had friends, and dimeritium bombs. She made a mistake, went in without checking for danger first, and was taken off guard. And in that moment, she remembers thinking vaguely that she very well might die there.

And then, she remembers a hand grabbing her attacker by the scruff of his neck and yanking him away. A flash of steel, and the man fell to the floor, grasping a bleeding neck. The last attacker ran forwards, pulling at his sword, eyes burning with rage.

But Ameer did not bother using magic – he could not, in fact, for dimeritium fumes still hung heavily in the air. With a calm face, he simply side-stepped the attack and, in one clinically smooth motion, snapped the man’s neck.

For a moment, Yennefer felt a jolt of alarm. At that time, she knew little about Fox Mothers aside from their illusory and bewitchment abilities. She certainly didn’t realise their pure strength. So, for a brief moment, she felt afraid.

But it didn’t last long. As Ameer turned to her with concerned eyes and held out his hand, she felt utter humiliation. Everything hurt – her neck ached, the dimeritium made her nauseous, and her arm had been cut open savagely. She was too weak to stand, so reluctantly she accepted his help as he pulled her up. And though she tried to insist she was fine, all that came out was a pained, spluttering cough.

“Do not exert yourself.” Ameer told her gently, ushering her out of the death-laden room. “Let us get away from all this dimeritium.”

Outside, the air had been fresh and clear. At once, Ameer set about healing her wounds. He placed a glowing hand softly on her throat, and instantly the painful bruising vanished, soothing her tense muscles.

Again, she coughed, but was able to speak this time. “I had it under control, you know.”

Ameer had smiled vaguely at her insistence, and gotten to work healing the wound on her arm. “Of course.”

“I did. Why are you here, anyway? How did you find me?”

“You were not at your house, and when I asked around, someone had spotted you going in this direction. The only thing of interest here is this warehouse, so I assumed you were planning to follow up this lead by yourself. And when I realised, I was worried. You are very magically powerful, more than I am, but none of that matters when our foes wield dimeritium.”

Yennefer had scowled at this. She wanted to retort something, to ease her bruised pride, but her mind turned blank. After all, he had been right. Sick of being in Nilfgaard, sick of these political squabbles, and considerably more inexperienced all those years ago, she had been hasty. Careless. Clumsy. And she could have died for it.

Not that she admitted it at the time, though.

“What about your lead?” She asked instead. “I thought the meet up was tonight. If you went, you might’ve been able to eavesdrop, and you probably would’ve found out who ordered the hits on that nurse and your patient.”

“I know.” He continued healing her arm with even, steady motions. “But there will always be more leads. There is only one of you. And I may be a good healer, but I do not possess the ability to resurrect you.”

“So?” She hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but she was taken aback by his words. And suspicious, to say the least.

He had looked at her, eyes wide with surprise. “Yennefer,” he said slowly, “you are more important to me than getting revenge.”

Yennefer hadn’t believed it. She stared at him mistrustfully. “I thought that revenge was important to aguaras. You told me yourself.”

At this, Ameer had laughed. Normally, his laugh was melodic in nature, pleasant to the ear. This time, his laugh sounded more like a bark, his aguara nature shining through. Yennefer was grateful for her make up that covered her flushed face.

“You know,” he said with amusement, continuing to heal her arm, “we value more things in life than just revenge. Loyalty and friendship are also important to us. So of course I do not want my friend to die.”

His words struck her almost violently. Completely caught off guard, she fell silent. At that time, Yennefer only considered herself to have one true friend. And she knew not to fall for the fake cheeriness and siren songs of other mages, who wanted allies over friends, who would betray her in a heartbeat if they benefitted from it. She could not let her guard down, and she certainly couldn’t rely on them when situations turned dire.

So she stared at Ameer, utterly shocked by his words. Only when his gaze locked with hers did she look away, somehow feeling abashed.

“…Thank you.” She spoke at last, very quietly.

Ameer waved his hand dismissively. “Do not worry yourself about it. Now, how about we go and get a drink? You certainly could do with one, I think.”

And then the dream changes.

She does not get to see how the evening became dramatically cheerier. Or how she woke up with a hangover, but laughed until her head ached when she saw the soil all over Ameer’s hands in the morning and watched him shamefully search through the gardens and dig up her missing jewellery.

For when she follows Ameer in her dream, the shadows catch her eye. And when she looks into the darkness, she sees green eyes staring at her.

Hair like flames, uncharacteristically wild and unkept. A gold and turquoise pendant around her neck. A shrivelled lily tucked behind one ear. Owl feathers clutched in her fist. A gown of blue, torn and bloodied, the golden hems tattered and muddied.

But her chest is bare. Yennefer feels sick at the sight, but she cannot look away. For her chest is a scorched and disfigured mess, charred and blistered and still stinking of Sodden’s flames. As if the devastating blow occurred only just minutes ago.

Triss stares at her. Blood drips from her eyes and mouth, flowing smoothly and sweetly like rose water. She speaks out loud – flatly, but very clearly. “Yennefer.”

And Yennefer wakes in a cold sweat.

She sits upright in bed, panic coursing through her veins, fingers trembling, panting for breath.

Next to her, Shani stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Yennefer stares at her to try and ground herself. Slowly, she begins to calm down – easing her breathing, steadying her nerves after her…her nightmare?

But…nothing bad happened. It was unnerving, yes, but why does she feel so panicked? Why is her heart pounding as if she’s had a horrific night terror?

Biting back a curse, Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. This is bad. If she’s even _dreaming_ about Triss…

No. This just will not do. Clearly, she cannot sleep away her problems. If she cannot avoid her thoughts drifting back to Triss, then she’ll have to take matters into her own hands. Maybe if she solves the mystery of Triss’s presence here, these thoughts will bother her less.

Carefully slipping out of bed, pulling the covers back around Shani, Yennefer quickly gets changed again. She walks to the door – and pauses when she hears movement outside.

“Here. You want some?”

That sounds like Witold. Very slowly, Yennefer pushes the door open ajar, peering out. She can see him kneeling down in the hall way, with some berries in his outstretched palm. A few paces away, Yennefer can see Juru. _So Ameer really did manage to sneak her into their lodgings after all_ , she thinks with amusement. She doesn’t have much interest in spying on this interaction, but it’s not like she can leave, either. Witold is blocking her way out.

The wolf walks forwards carefully, each step slow and deliberate. She reaches her muzzle to sniff Witold’s hand – then backs away, her ears flat against her skull.

Witold sighs. “You don’t like me, huh…Don’t blame you. You’ve got more sense than most.”

“What are you doing?”

Yennefer jumps at the sound of Ameer’s quiet voice. She watches as he stands behind Witold, looking amused.

“Nothing.” Witold turns around quickly to face him, holding his hands behind his back. Hm. As calm and collected as Witold is, even he can feel embarrassed and foolish. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I heard someone sneaking around the hallway, so I wanted to know who it was. Why do you have berries in your hand?”

Witold avoids his gaze, replying in a hushed voice. “I…Well, I felt bad about before. You know, how I threatened her with my sword. So I wanted to say sorry, but…don’t really know _how_ to say sorry to a wolf, so I thought I’d give her some food.”

Ameer raises an eye brow. “You want to apologise? Of course you panicked when a wild wolf suddenly appeared. You did not do it maliciously.”

“Even so.” Witold insists. “I feel bad. She wasn’t really trying to hurt me, was she? She’s your…well, not your pet,” he quickly clarifies, “but your…friend? I almost caused her harm, and I should make up for that. It’s simple.”

Ameer sighs, but he’s smiling. Resting his crutches against the wall and kneeling down near Witold, he holds out his palm.

“Give me the food.”

Reluctantly, Witold kneels down again and passes him the berries. When Ameer holds them out, Juru quickly scampers over and snuffles them up.

“Here.” Ameer takes Witold’s hand in his own. “Hold out your palm.”

Witold does so, and Ameer guides his hand towards Juru. The wolf watches carefully.

“If a stranger attacked you with a sword, then randomly offered you a tankard, would you accept it? Or would you think it was poisoned?”

“…Fair point.”

“Let her greet you first. Let her see you as a friend before you start offering food.” Ameer doesn’t let go of Witold’s hand. “My presence here with you will reassure her.”

Uncharacteristically nervous, Witold stays very still. Juru hesitates. Cautiously, she leans forwards to sniff Witold’s hand before jerking her head away. She does this again, and again, until her movements become less wary. Finally, she noses his hand with her muzzle.

Smiling, Ameer lets go of Witold’s hand and stands back. “She is satisfied you are not a threat. Now let her say hello.”

“Say hello?”

He has no chance to react when Juru leaps up at him. He’s just about able to withstand her weight as she places her paws on his shoulders and gives his face a thorough, unpleasant licking.

Ameer laughs. “See? She likes you now!”

Grimacing, Witold pushes Juru off him. She doesn’t stop pestering him though, sniffing his worn-down clothes, nibbling at the tears. Carefully, he strokes her head. When her tail wags, a smile creeps onto his face.

“Can’t say I’ve ever done this before.” He grins. “Petted a wild wolf like this.”

Ameer sits down beside him, running his hand along Juru’s back. “…Witold.”

“Yeah?”

“…I wanted to say, thank you. For rescuing me from the river.” He frowns. “I never properly thanked you for that. Had you not been there, I could have died. And I never thanked you. That was rude of me.”

“You don’t need to thank me. Really.” Witold says seriously. “Anyone else would’ve done the same.”

Ameer tilts his head. “No. There are plenty of people who do not like elves here. Many more would simply have been too afraid to act. So, I am very glad it was _you_ by the river. Otherwise, I would probably not be here now.”

“I suppose.” Witold doesn’t look at him. “Even so, you don’t need to thank me.”

Ameer tilts his head, bemused. “What you said in Mulbrydale was true. You really do not like being treated as a hero – you will not even accept a simple thanks.”

Witold winces in embarrassment, though Yennefer isn't quite sure what they're talking about. “…You remember that?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well.” He looks away. “I was drunk – overtalkative. You don’t need to worry about any of that.”

“But you said it all the same. Forgive me, but I am curious.”

After a short moment of silence, Witold looks up at him wryly. “Well, that’s another thing. You don’t have to apologise either. But…it’s a very long story.”

“We have time. If you wish to speak, that is.”

Yennefer wonders if she should retreat – this conversation seems like it’s turning very personal – but, then again, she’s curious herself now. Eavesdropping is a terrible habit, yes, but she hasn’t planned on giving it up anytime soon.

Again, Witold falls silent, looking to be deep in thought. He strokes Juru’s head distractedly, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Well…when people thank me, it’s like they think they owe me something. And that’s wrong. No one owes me anything. I don’t do this to get praise, and certainly not to get favours or anything like that. The last thing I want is people doing things for me, or gods forbid putting themselves in danger, because they feel like they owe me. So, I don’t like people thanking me. To put it briefly.”

Ameer thinks about this. “...Did you know, in standard Ofier, to say ‘you are welcome’ in response to someone thanking you is simply ‘Afwân’. If it is someone important, you say, ‘shakrak yushrifuni’, which means ‘your thanks honours me’. But in the dialect frequently spoken in the steppe regions, it is different. 'ana 'astamtie bisaeadatik’. It means, ‘I take joy in your happiness’.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Saying thank you is a way to express your happiness at something. I do not think that is a bad thing, do you? To say that it is meaningless, or even bad, does that not say their happiness is meaningless too?”

“…I didn’t think of it like that.”

“If you do not think you are worthy of thanks, for whatever reason, then that is fine. But that does not mean you should dismiss the gratitude of others, or else you risk trampling on what is important to them.”

Witold nods sombrely, running a hand through his hair. “…I never thought of it like that. Even now, I’m still getting it wrong.”

“No, not wrong. You just learned it in a new way. We are always learning, all the time. That is in our nature, is it not? We should feel happy when we learn new things, not just ashamed for not knowing them in the first place. Otherwise, we would never want to learn and change.”

“…You’re right.” Witold smiles, abashed. “Look at me, springing all these deep conversations on you again. I told you it was a bad habit of mine. Sorry. You only wanted to see what I was doing up, I’m sure you weren’t prepared for all that.”

“I do not mind. Besides, I was the one who brought it up.”

“Well.” Witold stands up, helping Ameer to his feet and passing him his crutches. “I’m glad you did…Thank you.”

Ameer smiles. “'ana 'astamtie bisaeadatik.”

When the two of them have retreated to their room again, Yennefer hurries out of their lodgings and across the village, eager not to waste any more time. Her mind buzzes with thoughts after her unintentional eavesdropping. She’s surprised at the openness of their conversation, considering that Witold seems to be a rather secretive man, but by the practiced ease at which they spoke to each other, she surmises that this isn’t the first time they’ve had such conversations. Ultimately, though, she forces her mind to focus back on Triss, with great reluctance. She can ponder Witold and Ameer's relationship later. The bonfire is still smouldering, the scorched crops glowing like embers in the blaze, though the stench of rotten vegetables has mercifully burnt away now. Smoke tickles her throat, and Yennefer takes care not to cough. The quieter she is, the better. She doesn’t want anyone seeing her.

As she reaches the Koviri tent on the other side of the village, she slows. She can hear voices coming from inside.

“Have you tracked down that Scoia’tael unit?” Triss asks her assistant.

“No. But I found some other units.” He tells her solemnly. “Nilfgaardian units.”

“Damn it.” Triss sighs. “We need to be careful. They might send spies to try and infiltrate our work. And they cannot know what we’ve learnt. This might be their home turf, but they don’t know about the Crones. Right now, we still have the advantage.” Yennefer listens with interest.

“They’re tricky though, Lady Merigold. The Nilfgaardians.” Kilian tells her. “I’m sure they’ve already figured out why Kovir has sent mages. We’re lucky the other mages got back home without being involved in ‘unlucky accidents’.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. But we’ve got the King’s protection. Nilfgaard won’t want to wage war against Kovir if anything happens to us and Kovir becomes aggressive.” Yennefer was right, then.

“What about Lady…Yennefer?” He doesn’t know her last name. “She’s worked with the Nilfgaardians before, hasn’t she? What if she’s a spy?”

“She’s not a spy.” Triss says dismissively.

“Really?”

“Well…I think she’s hiding something from me.” At these words, Yennefer’s chest tightens. “I’m not sure what. But I’m certain she’s not spying. She cut off ties with Nilfgaard long ago, only worked with them because Ciri was in danger. She’s never been that fond of them.”

“If you say so…” Kilian sighs. “All this spying and espionage…”

“If you want to go far in politics, you’ll have to get used to it.” Triss warns him. “Or rather, get used to _avoiding_ it. I learnt that the hard way – from the Nilfgaardians, no less. You don’t want to get caught up with Nilfgaardian spies, trust me. That’s why I cast Bhrath near our tent.”

Yennefer freezes. Shit. That’s a security spell, to alert the user if someone approaches. Have they realised she was here the whole time?

But neither of them moves, or bursts out of the tent to confront her. “I hate this region.” Kilian complains obliviously. “I can’t believe we had to come here, of all places.”

Wait…Haven’t they realised? Instinctively, Yennefer looks over her shoulder. Ameer is sitting on a fence, watching Yennefer curiously. He waves mischievously at her. Oh, he’s interfering with her spell. She hadn’t realised he’d spotted her. Quiet as a shadow, that one.

She walks to him, lowering her voice as she speaks. “What are you doing here?”

“You thought you could sneak away from me?” He asks, amused. “I heard Witold get up and went to go and see what he was doing. Then I heard you sneaking out, and wondered where you were going at this time of night. It is almost midnight, and you are going to see Miss Merigold?”

“Yes, I am. I want to figure out why Kovir really sent their highest-ranking mage here. From the sound of it, there’s something more serious going on here.”

“More serious?”

“Politics. Espionage. That kind of serious.” She frowns. “I don’t want to tell Triss about Geralt. Not until I know for certain what Kovir is really planning here. I don’t want to be hanging around a conspiracy.” She looks at the tent. “I’m going to go speak to her; see if she’ll slip up and reveal something.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Do you want me to hide you approaching the tent again?”

“…Reveal me at the last moment. They’ll know I’m coming, they won’t suspect any interference, but it will give them less time to hide away any incriminating evidence.”

“I understand. Would you like me to stay out here?”

“No, no. It’s awfully cold out here. Go inside, keep warm.” She can handle Triss herself.

“Are you sure? I do not mind.”

“You hate the cold.” Yennefer gives him a wry smile. “And you should go and get some rest. You’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, don’t you?”

Ameer sighs at this. “True…All right, then. But if you need me, do not hesitate to wake me up.”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

Even so, she’s reluctant to approach the tent again. She’d much rather return back to their lodgings with Ameer, sleep and be refreshed for a long day of tests and experiments tomorrow. But she forces herself forwards.

“Triss?” She calls outside the tent.

After a moment, Triss opens the entrance. She tries to hide her surprise.

“Yenna. I thought you’d retired for the evening.”

“I hope I’m not bothering you. I simply wished to discuss some matters about the Crone.”

“No, no, not at all. Please, come in.” Triss ushers her inside.

The interior of the tent doesn’t look particularly changed, though Yennefer sits down casually rather than looking around obviously.

“I’ve been speaking to villagers about the Crone, but none can tell me anything new, including the fact they all seem to think the Ladies are dead. They don’t know one escaped.”

“I’m surprised you even managed to get them to open up.” Triss says. “They say nothing to me and Kilian.”

That’s thanks to Shani – a medic is far more trustworthy than a mage in the eyes of these villagers. “They told us something else interesting, too. A woman mentioned something called the Ritual of Rebirth. You haven’t heard of it, have you?”

Triss shakes her head. Damn it. “Ritual of Rebirth…that sounds ominous.”

“Everything in this village is ominous.” Yennefer sighs. “We stayed in a few villages around Greyrocks, and none of them were as suspicious towards outsiders.”

“We feel the same. These villagers really don’t like us – and they certainly don’t trust us. Of course, we’ll try and help treat the sick, and they’re grateful when we do, but as soon as we start investigating the blight, they get mistrustful. I see them whispering whenever we pass, throwing us dirty stares.” She shrugs. “Not that I care. After Novigrad, nothing like that bothers me anymore.”

“It’s probably because we’re from Kovir.” Kilian guesses. “Even with this cursed gold incident, villagers like these never seem to trust outsiders. You should keep an eye on your Ofieri friend, just in case.”

Yet none of the villagers paid much attention to him besides the normal surprise, Yennefer thinks. And Casmir’s thoughts were only of Triss, and some strange distrust towards her, despite the fact she’s actively trying to help these villagers. Why?

“Your friend, Ameer – I’ve never met him before.” Triss remarks. “How long have you known him?”

“It was just after I met you.” Yennefer had tried not to mention him much, so preoccupied with keeping his vulpess secret. And secrets are hard to keep around other sorceresses. “We met in Nilfgaard.”

“Oh, yes…I remember you went to Nilfgaard.” Triss recalls. “You got a hefty reward from that, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.” Not that it did any good in terms of her fertility research, though. “He helped me out with that political adventure back then. We worked together to solve it.” At the beginning, they had simply been partners. But things changed.

When Yennefer foolishly went off by herself, and Ameer abandoned his lead to help her, he called her his friend. To this day, Yennefer isn’t exactly sure why he changed his view of her, from an ally to a friend. What she did, or what she said, to earn this Yennefer isn’t sure. She’s never felt the need to ask, and Ameer has never outrightly said. To be honest, he probably hasn’t even thought much about it.

But for Yennefer, it was a striking moment. When he decided to help her in her foolishness, harming his own goals in the process, focused only on her wellbeing, walked through heavy and painful dimeritium smoke to help her…That was when Yennefer realised that Ameer was, to her, a friend. Someone she could let her guard down around, someone who would not betray her out of his own self-interest. And it had been so meaningful to her at the time, because her only real friend had been…

Triss. It had been Triss.

A jolt of discomfort spreads through her, tainting her entire body like ugly muddied water. A close friend…there was a time when Yennefer considered both Triss and Ameer to be at this same level. Both very close friends.

And now…

She swallows. Locks it away, quickly, deep inside of herself. She forces herself to continue. “Did I really never mention him at all to you before?”

“I think you might’ve done, a few times. The story is familiar to me, but I don’t think you went into much detail.” Triss remembers.

“That sounds about right. And unfortunately, we weren’t able to see each other very often. It’s a long way to Nilfgaard, after all, let alone to Ofier. And despite being a mage, he doesn’t use portals or megascopes.”

“Really? Where did he graduate from?” Kilian asks curiously.

“A school in Ofier. I can never remember the name – it’s in Ofieri, after all, and I’m not familiar with the language – so you’ll have to ask him yourself.” In reality, he didn’t attend one. “What about you? You mentioned Ban Ard. When did you graduate?”

“A few years ago now, during the outbreak of war." He answers.

"And the witch hunts.” Yennefer comments.

He nods, and the eagerness in his face vanishes. “Yes. A terrible time.”

“I believe Kaedwen had been taken by Redania at that time, yes?”

“Indeed it had, Lady Yennefer. Radovid had taken Kaedwen to increase the sizes of his own armies, in an attempt to ward off Nilfgaard.” Instantly, his face falls. “…Many parts of the school were set on fire. All the students and teachers were scattered. Witch hunters were searching for us everywhere. They rounded up many of us, including…including me and my friends. We were to be burnt at the stake. I…I was the only one who managed to escape. I travelled to Kovir – my home. Barely survived the journey.”

“That sounds terrible. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He falls silent, his face pale, eyes lost in horrific memories. Triss gently touches his arm, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Things are much better now. After all, I have the king’s advisor as my teacher! I’m trying to forget about it all. No point dwelling on the past.”

He’s young, Yennefer thinks. Young and foolish, if he thinks he can just forget. Those memories won’t leave him for a very, very long time.

Yennefer reaches into her bag and takes out the drawing. “Since you were a graduate of Ban Ard, do you recognise this man?”

He looks at the parchment carefully, scrutinising the drawn face. He almost bites his nails before forcing his hand down. Clearly a habit he’s trying to break.

“…Maybe.” He sighs. “There were many faces at Ban Ard, many paintings and illustrations. I could’ve seen this one among them, but I can’t remember exactly. If I did, I never spoke to him or learnt his name.”

Interesting. If he went back to Ban Ard, would he be able to recognise Tye? Perhaps learn his true name?

“His name is Tye, but we believe that’s an alias.” Yennefer explains.

“Tye…” Kilian thinks about this. “Has he had any specific achievements? What kind of magic does he use? I don’t recognise his face, but I could’ve heard stories about him.”

“Stories?”

“You know, if he was famous for anything, he might’ve had fans in Ban Ard. Like you.” He grins. “Lots of people talk about how you managed to cast spells with your feet, Lady Yennefer. Loads of people have tried, but no one’s ever succeeded. Even among the court, people talk about you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. People talk about how you helped defeat the Wild Hunt fleet in Skellige – they call you the Horsewoman of War for that.”

When Yennefer laughs, he looks confused. “What is it?”

“It’s amusing, really. That nickname – I’ve heard it so many times now – but it didn’t start as a good thing.” She smiles wryly. “It was during the Third Northern war, while I was travelling across a war-torn Temeria. Unfortunately, I had the habit of finding myself barely escaping being caught up in battles. The locals gave me that nickname, though they thought I was some sort of phantom or spectre. An omen, essentially, that foretold the coming of war and death.”

“Oh.” Kilian’s eyes widen in surprise. “I didn’t know that. No one mentioned that before.”

Again, Yennefer smiles. “Let that be a lesson in politics for you. People’s opinions about you will change on a whim, and hypocrisy isn’t a concept anyone understands. But to answer your question about Tye, nothing he’s done would be worth celebrating or admiring.” She doesn’t bring up his involvement in Ameer’s enslavement – and keeps her mind firmly off Geralt. “He can create a special kind of crystal golem, but that’s not a very unique skill for a mage.”

“A crystal golem is at least a little more unusual than a normal golem.” Kilian points out optimistically. “How about I do some research? See if there’s any record of anyone using that?”

“That would be very helpful, thank you.”

He bows, and leaves the tent hurriedly, returning to his own quarters. Triss watches him go with a caring smile.

“He’s very enthusiastic, isn’t he?” Yennefer remarks, seeing Triss’ expression.

“Yes, he is. A hard worker.” Triss hesitates. “He went through a lot trying to reach Kovir. Saw things no person should see. I think this is his way of coping with it, throwing himself into work and optimism. I’ve never seen him cry about what happened. I wonder how long that will last, though. One of these days, his optimism will break, and he’ll cry. He can’t hold off those bad feelings forever.”

“That’s true.” Yennefer smiles thinly. “How did you meet him?”

“I met him when I brought the mages from Novigrad to Kovir. We arrived at roughly the same time, so we were given the same induction and welcomes. He’s nice, though. Not cocky like too many of the Ban Ard graduates are.”

“He’s certainly taken a shine to you, Lady Merigold.” Yennefer says with a smile.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I think you know what I mean.” His crush is more than a little obvious.

Triss laughs. “Yenna, don’t tease me! I’m flattered by him, but I’m afraid I don’t feel the same. And besides, I’m sure it’s just infatuation. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Yenna. Why does she call her Yenna?

The thought comes to her suddenly, starkly. Why does she laugh and smile like that? How can she be so carefree and happy in front of Yennefer? And why does she call her Yenna?

“I have a bottle of wine somewhere back here.” Triss stands up, and moves towards her luggage, tucked away at the far side of the tent. “I don’t like having such unnecessarily extravagant living quarters, but it does come with its perks.”

Yennefer is barely listening. The more she thinks about it, the more that dark thoughts creep into her mind. How can she ignore everything that happened between them? All those unspoken words and feelings, how can she ignore them so? Or…does she even _need_ to ignore them? Does she simply not care? Has she moved on entirely, and expects Yennefer to do the same?

Does she know how much she hurt Yennefer?

Does she care?

That carefree, happy smile. Her sweet laughter. How is it that she’s been able to move on, yet Yennefer has been left with these murky, looming feelings? Is she overreacting? Is she holding a petty grudge? What would happen if she brought it up now? Triss is happy, and Yennefer would be holding a grudge that apparently everyone else has moved well on from.

Why, when she looks at Triss’s smiling face, does it make Yennefer feel like the one in the wrong?

She shouldn’t be. _She’s_ the one who was hurt. And yet, she’s the only one harbouring these feelings, apparently. It makes her feel belittled, petty, immature. And she hates it. She doesn’t want to feel this way. A thousand words dance on her tongue. Questions she wants to ask. Demand. Feelings she wants to be let known, hurts and betrayal.

But she can’t speak about it now. Not when Triss is smiling like this. Not when Triss clearly hasn’t even been thinking about the hurt she inflicted on Yennefer.

No, for Yennefer is proud. She won’t be the first to cave and address the issue, not when Triss seems to have not lost a single moment of sleep over it. She won’t let Triss see her tears.

Triss is returning. Yennefer realises just in time to banish the dark thoughts from her face and force a smile.

“Only one glass for me, please.” She says as Triss fills up a goblet. “After all, we’ll need all our wits about us to attempt that hydromancy spell tomorrow.”

“That’s true.” Triss takes a sip from her own glass. “It’s been too long since we last saw each other – it’ll be fun to spend some time together, won’t it? Even if that time is spent hunting down some cannibalistic monster.”

It won’t. It takes all Yennefer’s willpower not to pack up all her bags and leave this village, any nocturnal monsters they encounter be damned.

But for the sake of their quest, for the sake of keeping an already complicated mission from becoming any more complex, Yennefer keeps those thoughts at bay.

Instead, she says,

“Yes, it will be. It has been far too long, after all.”

She wonders how long she can keep these lies going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to edit a couple things with Shani. The idea of Geralt almost sleeping with her in the books (WHEN SHE WAS 17!!!! SAPKWOSKI WHAT WERE YOU THINKING) is very uncomfortable to me, so let's say that in this story, that never happened. Like, I get it, Geralt is a horndog, and that's explored plenty in the books, but you really didn't need to have him almost have sex with a 17 year old, Sapkowski. That was completely unnecessary and does literally nothing for Geralt's character or the plot. I have too much to explore without throwing that into the mix too! I love the books dearly, but sometimes you can definitely tell they were written by a white dude in the 90s....  
> I also decided that, having Geralt sleep with her in Hearts of Stone would be a pretty dick move since he's in a relationship with Yennefer at this point (in my version anyway) so I thought, let's not do that either, and just had it be that they got together in the first witcher game.  
> That being said........I may have romanced her myself in Hearts of Stone........Ooops.........did anyone here also romance her?  
> Also, in case you were wondering, the reason Ameer recognised Triss and acted a little awkwardly at the beginning of the chapter is because he saw her and Geralt being...intimate in one of Geralt's memories of the time period just before Witcher 2. This happened in chapter 2 of part 2, in case you were wondering!  
> A final detail - I've mentioned it before, but in case anyone forgot, the story of He-Who-Listened is my own invention to the lore, it's not canon in the games or books.


	9. Shared Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!!  
> I just wanted to say, thank you so much for everyone's kind words and wishes about starting my new masters course!! It's very exciting to finally be starting, and though it means I'll be busier, I'm definitely looking forwards to it!! It's been a little busy to start off with, mostly due to a lot of admin that needed to be completed, but once the course gets into its stride hopefully things will be a bit less busy!!  
> This chapter is considerably shorter than the most recent chapters I've uploaded (Chapter 8 was roughly 18,000 words long!!!) though the Geralt POV chapters always tend to be shorter than the other chapters. But after this chapter, the next ones will be....pretty long. I'm really sorry! I don't know how long AO3 chapters tend to be (the Promises to Keep series is the first fanfic I've written!) so I'm really sorry if they're too long! This chapter can be a bit of a break in that regard...I hope that's all right!  
> Also, book spoilers!

_“Rivia - population 1234. In that, 253 nonhumans. September 25, 1268 - a riot erupts, a massacre ensues. The streets run with the blood of elves and dwarves. One person finds the courage to face the raging crowd. During the rioting, 76 nonhumans perish, including the witcher Geralt of Rivia, stabbed in the chest with a pitchfork by a man of whom we know only that his name was Rob, and he owed 3 crowns at the local tavern. Yennefer of Vengerberg dies trying to heal the witcher...The bodies of Geralt and the sorceress are taken away by a mysterious young girl with ashen hair. Their place of internment remains unknown.” – the Rivian Pogrom, recounted by Vernon Roche_

Geralt feels a frustration unlike anything else he has ever felt in his life.

He paces up and down the cobbled floors of Kaer Morhen, impatiently waiting for Ameer to arrive in this strange dreamscape they share. His plan could be risky, true, but he can’t think of any other way to warn Ameer about what dangers lie ahead of him.

Ameer isn’t here yet, though. All Geralt can do is pace up and down on the balcony. Never before has he been so displeased to be in his home. Never before has he looked upon those beloved stone walls, spacious halls, and vast pine forests with such frustration. The gentle mountain breeze irritates him instead of calming him. The bright sun overhead seems to be mocking him. He should be happy to see Kaer Morhen. He should feel relieved or at least calm to be here. But instead, he feels painful, anxious anger.

Because he’s not here, not really. He’s stuck in his own medallion, in a cruel mockery of Kaer Morhen, being lugged across the Continent with no idea what’s truly going on outside, and no way to truly communicate with anyone.

There’s so much he doesn’t know, too. Whenever he has those blessed moments of being able to see out through the medallion, he ends up seeing nothing but green-coloured darkness. Ameer must be hiding the medallion underneath his clothes, meaning Geralt can’t see anything that gives him any clue as to what’s going on. The only time he’s actually been able to see something of use out of the medallion was when he saw someone who looked very similar to Olgierd von Everec, the former immortal man. He was relieved to be able to see something for once, instead of a green void of nothingness that leaves him as clueless as ever.

What he does know is that something bad almost happened the previous day. He can very easily guess what, for all of Kaer Morhen was suddenly engulfed by waves. The battlements, the walls, the watch towers – all submerged under deep, murky water. And Geralt could feel himself…slipping. Fading away. And he could feel Ameer slipping, too. He could feel a tightness in his own lungs, and in Ameer’s lungs at the same time.

Ameer had been drowning. How, why, Geralt didn’t know. But from the choking sensation in his own throat, and the burning in his chest, Geralt quickly understood that if something bad happened to Ameer, he would suffer the same fate.

It also quickly occurred to him that Ameer may very well not be able to swim. After all, he grew up in the barren, dry mountain foothills of Ofier. Swimming probably wouldn’t have been a prioritised skill to learn. Ameer was nowhere to be seen, and even if he had been there, Geralt doubted he could last long enough underwater so as to bring him to the hall of memories. So, in his desperation, he just thought of a memory. Vesemir teaching him to swim in the lakes outside Kaer Morhen – he thought of it, hard, and felt the memory connect with Ameer’s mind.

And when Kaer Morhen suddenly drained of water, when Geralt didn’t suddenly perish alongside Ameer, he understood it had worked.

For some time, he’d been elated. Aside from preventing whatever disaster almost happened, he thought he’d cracked it, thought he’d found a way to warn Ameer of the impending danger. So when night-time came, and Ameer entered the spiritual Kaer Morhen in his sleep, Geralt thought hard of the memory Ameer so desperately needs to see.

It didn’t work. Fucking of course not.

Ameer watched with bemusement as Geralt stood, face screwed up in concentration, looking like an idiot as he tried to show Ameer the memory. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing happened. Why, Geralt wasn’t sure – until it occurred to him that Ameer having a near-death experience was probably what triggered the ability, what triggered their minds to become so closely linked.

But that link was temporary, and neither Geralt nor Ameer would be eager for another deadly experience to attempt it again.

Of course, that’s what Geralt theorised anyway. He couldn’t be sure, and Ameer clearly hadn’t even thought about it. He explained little on his visit to this spiritual rendition of Kaer Morhen. The only piece of information he imparted, through miming the action of someone severing their own ear, is that they’re in Velen looking for the final Crone.

Why his friends are searching for that ancient monstrosity, Geralt does not know. It worries him immensely.

He hates feeling so ignorant, so clueless to what’s going on. Not being able to have a proper conversation with anyone is even worse. The frustration and loneliness in this fake Kaer Morhen is suffocating. And the fact he can’t warn anyone is the worst of all.

But that will change today, he tells himself firmly.

For the past few nights, Ameer’s visits have been brief; his sleep unsettled. Sometimes, he finds himself in one of Ameer’s memories, or one of his own, while other times they meet at Kaer Morhen. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, which is even more infuriating.

He hasn’t had a chance to enact this plan yet. Ameer keeps fading too quickly, and Geralt has been wasting time trying to fruitlessly explain the plan through charades and gestures. But this time, it’ll be different. He mentally runs through the plan again and again, preparing himself for the second that Ameer appears.

He can’t communicate the warning to Ameer through charades. Any hints or clues would be meaningless to him, too. And his earlier trick, simply thinking the memory, isn’t working.

But if he were to show Ameer the right memory in the hall of memories…

After what happened the last time Geralt unnecessarily poked around in memories, he feels a wave of inevitable anxiety. He’d be a fool to deny otherwise. Even thinking about the sensation of being dragged down Ameer’s path makes his head ache. This could end terribly.

As far as Geralt sees it, though, he doesn’t have any other choice. This is too important. He’ll take the risk of being dragged back onto Ameer’s path by a hostile memory over the dangers that lie ahead of them any day.

Pace, turn. Pace, turn. The wind sweeps over the balcony refreshingly, the sun warms his back, but he takes no comfort from it. Where is Ameer? The longer it goes on, the more Geralt works himself into an agitated state. What if this doesn’t work? What if this goes wrong? And where the hell is Ameer?

A hand touches him on the shoulder.

Geralt jumps. In this soundless world, he didn’t hear Ameer creeping up on him. The aguara waves at him pleasantly, looking around the fake Kaer Morhen curiously. He walks over to the edge of the balcony, looking down across the courtyard and towards the mountain vista. He points to the forests, then turns to Geralt and makes a bird with his hands. He’s wondering if there are any birds here – any other sentient life apart from Geralt and himself.

But Geralt doesn’t answer. He grabs Ameer’s wrist, and begins dragging him back towards the door.

Startled, Ameer follows him. He taps Geralt’s shoulder, no doubt wanting to ask what’s going on. Geralt ignores him. He has to do this now, before Ameer wakes up and Geralt loses his chance again. No more wasting time.

He drags Ameer back through those spacious halls, past the winding stair cases, throws open a door –

And steps onto the dusty path lined with pine trees. His path, the one that leads to his inner sanctum of Kaer Morhen. Far in the distance, he sees a junction. One direction leads to a road of arid scrubland and desert mountains. The other leads to a huge stone fortress, with a large brown door on the outside. The stronghold of their memories, where he was attacked before.

Still dragging Ameer behind him, Geralt begins walking. His mind is racing with strategies of how to find the right door, the right memory, inside the fortress. All those doors look the same. Only a few were different: the memory from Ameer’s childhood before he was turned into a vulpess looked old, dusty and unused; the memory of him and his lover was heavily barricaded with metal beams. Perhaps the memory that Geralt needs will be different in some way?

He can’t rely on that, though. Should that strategy fail, should the memory have no discernible features, then he’ll just have to go through as many as he can before he gets too tired. He doesn’t even know if the memories stay behind the same doors each time, but he’s got to try.

At last, they reach the stone fortress. Geralt reaches for the door handle – and is pulled back sharply.

He turns to Ameer. “What is it?”

Ameer points to Geralt, points to his own head, then shakes his head firmly. _You promised you wouldn’t go routing around my memories._

Biting back his frustration, Geralt points to himself, then points to his own head. _I’m not going in yours. I’m going in mine._

However, either Ameer doesn’t understand, or he’s not convinced. When Geralt tries to drag him forwards again, he wrestles his hand free of Geralt’s grip and remains firmly rooted on the ground.

“Come on, we don’t have time for this.” Geralt tries to grab his arm again, only for Ameer to shake it away. He folds his arms stubbornly, taking a step backwards.

_We are not going in there_ , his body language and stern expression tells Geralt.

Biting back curses, Geralt moves behind Ameer and tries to push him forwards. He might as well be trying to push a pillar of steel. Fox Mothers are strong, much stronger than they look. If Ameer doesn’t want to move, then Geralt can’t make him.

Shit. His mission can’t be over before it even began.

No, he can still fix it. After a moment of hasty planning, Geralt walks over to the door and opens it wide. Then he walks back to Ameer and grabs him by the waist.

Ameer realises what he’s planning to do a moment too late. Grunting, Geralt lifts up Ameer and hoists him over his shoulder. Then he walks towards the open door.

Instantly, Ameer writhes in his grip, thumping him hard on the back with great indignation. Geralt holds his arm over Ameer’s back to keep him in place, and tries to ignore the pain of Ameer’s fists pummelling his back. His mind is too focused, too desperate, to fail now.

He steps into the fortress, carrying Ameer with him. The stone corridor spans out in front of him. Two walls lined with doors go as far as the eye can see, with various hallways branching off, twisting and turning. Behind each door lies a memory.

For a moment, Geralt falters. The vision of being chased by that distorted figure flashes in front of him. He remembers those choking shadows, the heat of the red flames down the narrow corridor. And he falters. Doubt seizes him – what is he doing? This is too dangerous. Who knows what will happen?

But he shakes off those worries. He has to do this. He’ll just be exploring his own memories, not Ameer’s. It’ll be fine.

Forcing the doubts into the back of his mind, he begins walking.

Finding the right memory is not an easy task, though.

The corridors are long, winding, difficult to navigate, with no markers or signs to provide a clearer sense of direction. And all of the doors look exactly the same. He hasn’t been able to spot one that looks different so far. Not just that, but he’s slowed down by the added weight of Ameer, who is making life very difficult for him. At first, he just struggles and kicks, continuing his tirade of punches against Geralt’s back. They’re painful, but they don’t make much impact thanks to Geralt’s armour. So when he gets tired of punching, he tries to free himself of Geralt’s grip, attempting to pry away Geralt’s arm. And when he gets tired of that, he resorts to more…annoying methods.

He pulls at Geralt’s hair. Then he flicks it over Geralt’s head. He pokes Geralt’s face sharply with his finger. He twists himself around and covers Geralt’s eyes with his hand, almost making him walk into a wall.

Geralt thinks he is a calm man. He’s had to face down a lot of dangers with a steady, level head. He’s raised a child – Ciri could be cheeky and impish when she was young, prone to silly tricks and fits of stubbornness. At the very least, he’s always considered himself to be calmer than Lambert. He views his fellow witcher as a brother, would go to hell and back for him, but there’s no denying Lambert can be sulky and short-tempered at times. Geralt has stopped blaming him for that attitude, knowing the horrible history of abuse and trauma that haunts Lambert, but he would find himself getting frustrated at times with Lambert’s hot-headedness and willingness to escalate situations that could be solved peacefully into fights.

Now he mentally takes all of that back as Ameer licks his own hand and wipes the saliva across Geralt’s face. This is really fucking annoying. And when Ameer decides to lick his ear, Geralt promptly decides that he’s had enough.

Roughly, he puts Ameer down. How can Geralt explain that he’s trying to help Ameer, trying to warn him?

He puts his hands on Ameer’s shoulders, mind racing to figure out how to communicate the message. He’s about to start miming when Ameer sweeps his foot out underneath Geralt’s legs with surprising strength, knocking him off balance.

Painfully, Geralt lands on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He has no time to right himself, even with his enhanced witcher reflexes. Fox Mothers are fast, after all. Ameer grabs him by the scruff, hoists him up, and lifts Geralt over his shoulder.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He knows Ameer can’t hear him, but he shouts it anyway as Ameer begins carrying him. He’s walking back towards the entrance, back to the junction, undoing Geralt’s hard work so far.

Geralt considers struggling and kicking and annoying the fuck out of Ameer, if only to give him a taste of his own medicine, but quickly decides it’s a waste of energy. There’s a much easier way to solve this.

He points down to the ground and casts yrden. Immediately, the purple glowing runes appear on the ground. It might not be enough to stop Ameer completely, but it’ll slow him down.

As soon as he casts the sign, Ameer stops in his tracks. He lowers Geralt down gently, and puts his hands on his hips, regarding Geralt with a truly exasperated expression.

Sighing, Geralt runs his hand over his face. He takes a breath and calms himself down. Ok. Let’s try again.

He points between the two of them, then points to the various doors that hold his memories. He points to the other side of the corridor, where Ameer’s memories are stored, and shakes his head emphatically. Then he points back to his own memories, and nods. We are going into _my_ memories. Not yours. Stop trying to drag me back.

At last, Ameer seems to understand. However, he still looks confused. He shrugs with his hands, and mouths something – Geralt assumes it’s the word ‘why?’

Geralt grits his teeth in frustration. He has no idea how to explain this part. How does he say, I need to show you something important? I need to warn you about what lies ahead? How does he say, you and Yennefer and Regis and Ciri are all in danger? Something that all of you will be completely unprepared for? How does he communicate a message like that?

It turns out, he doesn’t need to. The desperate frustration must show on his face. Ameer studies his expression thoughtfully. He must know that Geralt isn’t stupid. He must know that Geralt wouldn’t go back against his promise and bring Ameer here unless it was extremely important, especially after what happened last time.

For he eventually nods, holding out his hand with a sigh. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he’s relented.

Relieved, Geralt takes it. He doesn’t know how to say thank you, so he just smiles instead, and begins leading Ameer back through the stone corridors.

After a while of searching – well, he thinks so, time passes strangely here – he comes across a door that finally looks different.

The outside is bashed and beaten. The wood of the door has been slashed savagely. The edges are tinged with soot marks, and sprays of blood have been splattered across the panels. The stench of gore has been entrenched into the grain.

Ameer must smell it too, for he takes a wary step back, holding his hand over his nose and mouth. He obviously doesn’t want to go in.

But maybe this is it? Maybe this is the right door?

Bracing himself, he pushes open the door and pulls Ameer inside after him.

The cobbles are drowning in blood. The air stinks of gore and flesh and death. All around him he hears the screams of a baying mob, filled with bloodlust and hate and gleeful rage. He sees Rivian peasants carrying pikes, decorated with the heads of murdered elves and dwarves, like some twisted and sadistic festival. He sees the bodies of the nonhumans, strewn about, discarded like rotten meat, spat upon and trodden upon by the raving mob. And the cobbles drown in their blood.

Ameer looks around himself in horror. He grabs onto Geralt’s arm, appalled and, quite frankly, terrified by the mindless violence around him.

In the centre of this crowd, Geralt sees himself. Or rather, he sees himself dying.

The Rivian Pogrom.

All this because of an argument between a noblewoman called Nadia Esposito and a dwarf merchant. But that didn’t really matter. This was a disaster waiting to happen, as it has many times in the past, and will undoubtedly happen again. All the hatred and racism had been brewing for a long time. A field of tinder waiting for a single spark to set it off. The noblewoman and the dwarf were the spark this time, but even if they hadn’t argued, something else would have set it off eventually. People just wanted an excuse to go on a murderous rampage against their nonhuman neighbours, and Nadia Esposito provided them with one.

Dandelion is knelt beside Geralt’s bleeding body, looking afraid and distraught, holding that goddamn broom in his shaking hands. Zoltan looks like he’s in shock, himself afraid of joining the other slaughtered dwarves at the hands of the mob, but faces them with his axe anyway alongside Yarpen Zigrin.

Geralt sees the terrible wound. The pitchfork that skewered his abdomen – pierced his organs, and left him bleeding internally to drown in his own blood – is gone. The man who stabbed him fatally is gone. Just another nameless face among the horrors of the crowd.

The second he looks at that wound, Geralt feels the pain again. He remembers the way the pitchfork tore through him. The agony that followed. A pain so terrible, he couldn’t breathe, couldn't move, could barely even think. He felt as if he was burning up. The damage was catastrophic, the suffering unending.

He remembers it, and feels it again. He kneels down, clutching his stomach, sweat forming on his brow. This is the wrong door. The wrong memory. Somehow, this memory is recreating the wound – or at least the sensation of it. He needs to get out.

Ahead of him, the Geralt of the past is bleeding out onto the cobbles. Geralt knows what will happen next. Yennefer, Ciri and Triss will arrive. There is clearly nothing that can be done to save him. But Yennefer will try anyway. She’ll attempt to heal Geralt, pour all her magic and vitality into him – until she dies, too. She’ll collapse next to him, failing in her attempt to revive him, and losing her life anyway.

He doesn’t remember much after that. But he knows Ciri takes them away. To the isle of Avallach, where apple trees grow in the mist. Then she’ll leave herself, vanish to some faraway world. And she’ll only return when Yennefer is kidnapped by the Wild Hunt, when Geralt offers himself in exchange for her.

He doesn’t want to see that happen. The pain in his stomach is immense. He needs to get out of here.

Weakly, he grabs Ameer’s arm. Either Ameer understands the message, or he simply wants to escape this horrific scene. Quickly, he hauls Geralt to his feet, and helps him hobble from the memory. They stumble out of the door, and slam it tightly behind them.

As soon as they leave, the pain in Geralt’s stomach lessens. Doesn’t disappear, but lessens. The smell of blood and death hovers over them unflinchingly, though, their enhanced senses of smell a curse in this instance.

Leaning against the wall, Geralt stumbles towards another door. The screams of the mob still ring in his ears. Nausea from the pain and the horror of the memory spreads throughout his stomach. He needs to get somewhere else, away from that door.

He reaches out and grabs another door handle. Opening it ajar, he can smell more bloodshed inside, so moves on without even checking what memory it contains, turning sharply down another corridor that branches off from this one.

The next door he fumbles for smells of grass, and soil, and flowers, and wine. Without thinking, he pushes the door opens and practically falls inside.

The grass is soft around him. Wildflowers sway in the breeze, tickling his face. Panting, he looks up. Corvo Bianco stands quietly over him in the gentle light of the moon, decorated with a wreath of stars around it in the sky. As Geralt stares at it, his heart twists with longing and melancholy.

Just ahead of him is the greenhouse. And he sees Yennefer harvesting various herbs, picking the leaves and flowers to grind up into potion and remedy ingredients later.

Now, he sees himself approaching. A stupidly playful smile on his lips as he walks towards her. Being a witcher, he could’ve snuck up on her with complete, perfect silence. But he didn’t. He made sure that his footsteps were clumsy enough to create noise, so as not to startle her.

Of course, Yennefer heard him. But she, too, joined in the game. She pretended to be oblivious, continuing to pick and prune her herbs, collecting the leaves and flowers into a bag.

When Geralt wraps his arms around her from behind, she feigns surprise. “Goodness, you startled me.”

“I did?”

“I almost dropped my pruner in sheer fright.” She says teasingly. “What are you doing out so late?”

“I could ask you the same.” He rests his chin on her head. “I woke up cold in the bed without you next to me.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do some gardening.”

“There were other things you could’ve done.” Geralt whispers in her ear mischievously. “If you woke me up, we could’ve done something…fun.”

“But you were sleeping so peacefully.” Yennefer continues pruning the leaves from one of her plants. Her tone remains matter-of-fact. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Now, Geralt hesitates, a frown appearing on his face. “…Did you have a bad dream?

“Mmm…” She doesn’t answer, doesn’t stop with her gardening.

“You could’ve woken me.” He says this seriously, his voice low. “You _should’ve_ woken me.”

“It wasn’t anything important; certainly not worth waking you up.” She replies evenly. 

He lets go of her, but puts his hands on her shoulders. Warmly, sincerely. “If you’re upset or afraid, then it _is_ worth waking me up. I don’t want to be sleeping peacefully if you aren’t too.”

Sighing, Yennefer puts down her garden tools carefully. And slowly, she turns around, nestling easily into his embrace, arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into his back.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I just want you here with me.”

“I can arrange that.” Geralt holds her closer.

Yennefer sighs again. She looks up at him, the violet in her eyes only made more beautiful by the stars above her. And as she looks up at him, a smile creeps onto her face.

“You know,” she stands on her tiptoes to lean in and whisper in his ear, “we still have the time to go and do something…fun.”

“We do.” Geralt doesn’t let go of her. “But there’s no rush.”

“Mm.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “There’s no rush.”

As Geralt watches the scene, the pain gradually disappears. The nausea vanishes, and the phantom wound that the memory conjured up fades away. Good. In this safe, happy memory, he feels calm.

Ameer kneels down next to him, hand gently on his shoulder. He looks very concerned.

Geralt smiles weakly to show he’s all right. He fondly watches the memory a little while longer, then reluctantly gets to his feet. They’re still a long way from finished in this memory fortress.

Leaving the pleasant memory behind, he leads Ameer back out into the corridor. After the Rivian pogrom memory, he moves with a new cautiousness. Another rule to add to his short list: don’t linger in memories where he got severely, terribly hurt. This soul body seems to replicate the damage.

With this newfound trepidation, Geralt leads Ameer far from the beaten and bloodied door. Only when the door, and the corridor it was installed at, is completely out of sight does he attempt another one.

Inside this door, he catches a glimpse of himself killing Imlerith, bringing the commander’s own mace down onto his burnt head. The dark vindication at seeing Vesemir’s murderer die hasn’t lessened, even four years later.

But it’s not the memory he needs. Geralt opens another door, and sees himself battling Letho, being defeated by the Viper Witcher. “You were one of us, Geralt. You saved us. Now we’re even.”

No, not this one. He tries another, and sees himself lifting the curse of Fyke Isle. “Annabelle, I – I was sure ye were dead. If I’d known otherwise, I’d a never have left ye! I’d do anythin’ for ye, I would. Ye know that well. Believe me, I beg ye.”

“Prove it.” Annabelle, the pesta, demands. “Kiss me.”

In another, he sees himself and Yennefer on the unicorn in Skellige – and quickly moves on before Ameer sees too many unnecessary details. Another door holds a somewhat blurry memory of himself, Lambert and Eskel wearing Yennefer’s clothes in Kaer Morhen after a night of excessive drinking.

“Damn, Eskel, you’ve got an hourglass figure!” Lambert exclaims, his voice slurred.

Wrong again. Dragging Ameer on, who wants to carry on watching, amused by the interaction, Geralt tries another door. Triss has fallen from the fountain at the Vegelbud estate. Geralt has caught her. She leans in for a kiss, but he tenses, and lowers her carefully and awkwardly onto the ground instead.

Still wrong. Geralt rubs his temples. A headache is beginning to grow behind his eyes. How long is it going to take to find this memory?

More scenes flash by. The more doors he opens, the more memories he peers into, the more tired Geralt becomes. His legs are beginning to feel heavy. His breath becomes ragged and pained. No, not already! He can’t give up so soon, not yet.

A hand tugs on his arm. Ameer is looking increasingly worried. Geralt tries to smile at him to reassure him, and fumbles for another door. He has to keep going.

But when he steps inside the door, into a sprawling forest, he promptly collapses onto the ground, his body screaming to rest. Ameer kneels down by him worriedly. Fine, he’ll rest here. No point overexerting himself when he still has a long job ahead of him. This memory seems safe. He’ll wait until he’s caught his breath back, then leave.

What memory is this? He looks around at the forest, up towards the sky. A sunset is slowly dying as the dusk gives way to night. Stars are beginning to emerge in the darkening sky, just visible beyond the treeline of the woods. In a clearing, elven ruins are half-consumed by lichen, moss and ivy. A statue of a she-elf, palm held upwards as if she was holding something that has since chipped away, stands next to fallen walls. The ground is littered with pine needles, but hardy white dryas grow proudly, their flowers blossoming in spite of the low light and cold climate.

Here, in the clearing, Geralt sees himself. He’s staring at the ground, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a grimace that means he doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

A few paces ahead of him is Triss.

She’s sitting on one of the fallen elven walls, holding a white dryas in her hands. She doesn’t look at him; just stares into the petals.

Geralt remembers this. It was a week after the massacre at Loc Muinne, after all the chaos with Letho, Roche and Ioverth, the assassinated kings, the Lodge, Nilfgaard. And after all that chaos, it had taken a full week for Geralt to find somewhere quiet and isolated. Where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

In the end, he chose a forest near the Lixela in Kaedwen. He can hear the river’s gentle rushing in the background. A beautiful place, but in a sad kind of way. Quiet and gentle. He had initially considered various ways of softening the blow, even altering the truth, but eventually decided against it. Triss deserved his full honesty.

Deep down, she must’ve known it was coming. She gently touches the edges of the flower petals. “…You’ve remembered everything now, haven’t you? Absolutely everything.”

“Yes. I have.”

Carefully, she places the flower in the outstretched palm of the elf statue. Her face is still bruised from her run-in with the Nilfgaardians. “And you want to end our...You want to end _this_.”

“…Yes.”

She knew the words were coming. But they hurt her anyway.

“I need to find Yen.” He sees himself continue. Best not to prolong the whole affair, or drag out her suffering. “Anything could’ve happened to her. And I –”

“You love her.” Triss interrupts.

“…Yes. I do.”

She nods evenly, obviously trying to keep her emotions contained. “…I…I understand.”

“Triss, I don’t want to hurt you.” Geralt says softly. “But this never would have worked out.”

“…Did it mean anything?” She looks at him for the first time, green eyes glistening. “What we had?”

“…It did, Triss. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sad. But…it was based on a lie. I can’t love someone based on a lie, Triss. Especially when I already have someone else.”

She closes her eyes. “…I know. I…I don’t know what I was expecting. This never would’ve worked, you’re right. I suppose…this is what I deserve.” Her eyes open, and tears spill out. “Tricking you – tricking _myself_ into thinking that we could run off together, be together…That’s the saddest thing of all, isn’t it? The only way you could love me was when you were missing half of your memory. Isn’t it pathetic? Here I was, thinking we had something real, when the whole thing was built from lies, ready to collapse at any moment. Of course you’d remember. Of course it was all doomed to fail. And yet…I still thought…I…”

She puts her head in her hands. Geralt silently walks over to her. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do. Slowly, he puts his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly.

This memory might not involve Geralt getting stabbed in the abdomen, but he still regrets choosing this one in which to rest. This is a painful, difficult scene for him. Breaking up with Triss was a necessity. Geralt didn’t consider the alternative, not even for a single second, when he finally found out where Yen was. But it was still painful. He had many fond, happy memories with Triss.

Yet it wasn’t the act of ending their relationship that was the worst part of this. It was the knowledge that everything they had together, all those good memories, were built on deception. It taints them. Mars them with an ugly, deep scar. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Just sad, and guilty, and desperate to find Yen.

This isn’t a good memory. True, he hasn’t been impaled with a pitchfork in this one, but he wants to leave.

With great frustration, though, he realises that he’s barely recovered his energy. When he stands up, his legs scream in protest. His lungs ache for air. But he doesn’t have a choice. He’s come this far; he can’t give up now. The right memory has to be around here _somewhere_.

Fortunately, Ameer is too busy watching the scene in front of him to notice Geralt’s fatigue. He looks…troubled. Not just by Triss, but by Geralt. For when he looks at the old Geralt, his expression becomes one of genuine confusion. Maybe he’s wondering why Geralt isn’t angry. But Geralt doesn't bother trying to explain to him that anger was just too simple. Those feelings are...complicated. And painful. And sad. He doesn't want to dwell on them at all, let alone try and silently communicate them to Ameer. No, it's time to go. 

Even the act of walking to Ameer makes Geralt’s body ache, but he ignores it. Gently, he leads Ameer from the memory, if at least to give the memory Triss and Geralt some privacy. No matter how nonsensical that might seem.

Back in the stone corridor, his strategy of finding the right memory is becoming more and more erratic. He isn’t even bothering to close the doors after him now, simply swinging them open, glancing quickly inside, and moving onto the next one. A cacophony of clashing sounds and smells build up behind him as he walks along the stone corridors, leaving a trail of open doors in his wake. Tugging at his arm to make him slow down, Ameer begins hastily closing the doors, making sure they’re locked securely. The distorted man from the other day could leave his own memory, after all.

But Geralt doesn’t care. He’s too desperate at this point. Memories flash by him as he opens doors recklessly. Fighting Dettlaff, dodging and slashing for his life. Saving Angouleme from Governor Fulko Artevelde's wrath, adopting her into his hanse. Running through the forests near Kaer Morhen, his memory entirely gone from his time with the Wild Hunt, collapsing in a heap until his witcher brothers found him. Sitting with his back to a campfire, sulking about the hanse’s new vampire companion as the others cooked a fish stew over the flames, joking and laughing at his childish behaviour.

Faster and faster, he opens doors, the pain in his head turning from a dull ache to hot searing pain. He can’t stop now. He has to keep going. Ciri training in Kaer Morhen, trying to master the pirouettes and feints with her wooden sword. Lambert delivering the final lethal blow to Jad Karadin to avenge Aiden, his murdered friend from the School of the Cat. Watching Dana Meadbh herself descend into a clearing in Dol Blathanna, enwreathed with flowers and herbs. Giving Ciri a piggyback ride through Brokilon forest, Braenn walking ahead of them.

His pace begins to slow. His breath comes in pained gasps. His vision blurs from the agony in his head. He’s so tired.

But he can’t stop. He has to find this memory. He can’t have come all this way for nothing.

Leaning heavily against the wall, each step a tremendous effort, Geralt reaches for another door. He grasps the handle weakly, but doesn’t have the strength to open the door.

“I can’t…” He feels faint. “I can’t open…”

Ameer is holding him up, supporting his weight. Geralt’s hand slips away; his arm falls limply.

“I…I need to show you…” Even standing takes all his energy. “You need to know…”

His words fail. His vision darkens. And he slips into unconsciousness.

-

When he wakes, Geralt can feel the sun above him.

Someone is smoothing back his hair, calmly and methodically. He can feel hard stone cobbles beneath his back, but his head is elevated. He pain is gone. Only fatigue remains.

Groaning, Geralt opens his eyes. The sky is bright above him. Over stone walls, he sees the pine trees and mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen.

A hand smooths his hair again. Geralt realises that Ameer is next to him, looking down with a concerned expression. He’s lifted Geralt's head and rested it on his lap, rather than on the uneven cobbled stones. When Geralt opens his eyes, his concern changes to relief.

He’s brought Geralt back to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt has failed.

For a while, Geralt is too exhausted to be angry. He stays still, allowing his tired body to rest.

But as his energy returns, so does frustration. All of that was for nothing. He wasn’t able to find the memory. He’s going to have to start all over again.

When his body finally has the energy to move, Geralt sits up. A worried hand touches his shoulder; Ameer obviously still wants him to rest. But Geralt brushes him off, and stands up. He sways for a moment, but rights himself. Ok, fine. Time to start again.

He starts walking – only to be pulled back by Ameer. His grip on Geralt’s wrist is tight as iron.

“I have to go back. Come on.” Geralt insists.

However, Ameer shakes his head firmly. His expression is resolute. He wastes no time with charades, for the message is obvious on his face and stubborn glare.

_You are_ not _going back there. You are_ not _trying that again._

Geralt understands that nothing will change his mind. And he knows better than to try and force Ameer to go back. Really, he can’t blame Ameer for making this decision. The first time Geralt did this, he was attacked by a hostile memory and dragged down Ameer’s path. Now, he collapsed from pain and exhaustion. It would be a fool’s errand to try again.

He understands it. The logical side of him agrees with Ameer’s decision – this obviously wasn’t working, so there’s little point in trying again at the cost of his own physical health.

But that doesn’t stop him from feeling overwhelmingly frustrated.

A surge of anger rises up through him, the likes of which he rarely feels. He can’t take it out on Ameer, though. It’s not his fault. But he needs to do something, anything, to get rid of this suffocating frustration.

So he leaves Ameer. He leaves the balcony walks down these familiar stone steps and through this nostalgic hall – large, grand, spacious and slightly falling apart, just like he remembers. He leaves the building and walks out to the courtyard, towards the swinging pendulum Ciri used to practise on, where the walls of the old fortress overlook a sheer, deep drop down the mountainside. But he doesn’t relish in the gentle sun and calming breeze. Instead, he finds one of the old practice dummies and attempts to beat the shit out of it.

He can’t. It’s as if the leather has been replaced with solid rock. He only hurts his hand for his troubles.

Geralt shouts out as many swear words as he can think of, then grabs the dummy. With all his strength, he rips it from the ground – at least he can do that – then carries it over to the wall. Gritting his teeth, he throws the dummy over the ledge and watches it crash against the walls of Kaer Morhen, plummet down to its demise below. Seeing it slam against the rocks and grass is satisfying. But still not enough to rid himself of his frustration.

Spitting a few more swear words for good measure, Geralt sits down on the stones, running his hand over his face. He doesn’t normally resort to such childish displays of anger, but he thought maybe it would make him feel better. It doesn’t. He just feels foolish, has a painful hand, and is just as frustrated as before.

He had one chance to find the right memory. To warn Ameer. And he failed. He collapsed before he could find it. And he knows now that if he tries to go back, Ameer will force him to return. He’ll refuse to let Geralt risk damage to his mind and soul for a quest that he doesn’t understand the importance of.

Geralt had one chance. And he failed.

He hates this. He hates this so much. He hates being stuck in here with this terrifying secret, unable to tell anyone about it. He hates not being able to talk to anyone properly, whether that be to warn them or confess his own anxieties. He hates being so isolated, so…

Vulnerable. That’s what he hates. He was poisoned, and his soul placed in a medallion probably through magic. But how long will that last? Surely it can’t be forever. What will happen then?

Will he die?

His life is still on the line here. Yennefer obviously couldn’t figure out the cure to the poison. Neither could Ameer, or Regis it seems. They certainly won’t have figured out the truth of this terrible situation, either. None of them will be prepared for it. At any moment, Geralt might die. And he won’t see it coming. He won’t be able to do anything to stop it. His fate lies entirely with Yennefer, Regis and Ameer.

He despises feeling this vulnerable. Leaving his fate in other people’s hands. Being able to do nothing to contribute himself. Especially when he knows what darkness lurks ahead of them. Especially when he has no way to warn them of this impending doom. 

This spiritual Kaer Morhen almost seems cruel. Some misguided attempt to make him feel more at ease, more relaxed. But how can he, knowing he might die at any moment? What were his last words to his loved ones? He’ll never get to change them to something more meaningful. In a way, it would be kinder if he simply didn’t have consciousness in this strange world. If he just slept dreamlessly. That way, he couldn’t worry. He couldn’t feel this enraging frustration.

Geralt puts his head in his hands. He’s _scared_. Yes, he trusts his friends, but what can they do when they don’t even know what they’re up against?

There is a very good chance that they’ll fail in their mission to save Geralt. And Geralt won’t even know until his doom is right on top of him.

That terrifies him. And he doesn’t know what to do.

A hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up to see that Ameer has joined him. Gently, he sits down next to Geralt.

He doesn’t try to communicate to Geralt. No charades, no guess-work. He simply sits quietly, hand on Geralt’s shoulder comfortingly.

They sit that way for a while, and though Geralt does not attempt to explain his inner turmoil to Ameer, he has the feeling he doesn’t need to. The hand on his shoulder, the sympathetic expression on his face, suggests that Ameer understands what Geralt is feeling. At least a little, anyway.

Now that the anger has abated somewhat, Geralt doesn’t brush off Ameer’s hand. In fact, he’s admittedly glad for the company. Between seeing only a green darkness from Ameer’s clothes when he peers out of the medallion, and entering this strange Kaer Morhen when Ameer isn’t asleep, Geralt ends up being alone more often than not. Shirking Ameer’s company now would be foolish, and he’s certain he’d regret it later.

So he remains still, taking solace in their silent companionship. In fact, it is Ameer who moves first. With sudden abruptness, he stands up, his face lit up with some unspoken idea.

Geralt watches curiously as he paces up and down the courtyard, thinking hard. His brow is furrowed as if he’s intensely concentrating.

Suddenly, he stops. He’s not doing anything with his hands, but his face is taut with the same concentration that Yen has when she’s doing a particularly difficult spell. Next to him, the air shimmers in a vaguely humanoid shape.

Then stops. The shadow he was conjuring disappears. He scowls in frustration, and tries again. And fails again.

Geralt realises quickly what he’s trying to do – create illusions. But in this world, his powers don’t seem to be working very well. Maybe because he’s in Geralt’s mind, rather than his own?

Ameer paces back and forth again. An idea seems to come to him. He looks down at his own appearance. His green clothes suddenly change to a deep blue, then a burgundy red. Hm. So they just about work, but only in changing his own appearance. Considerably limited, then. What does he plan to achieve, though?

Suddenly, Ameer doesn’t stand in front of him anymore.

In his place stands another person. A little shorter, with much paler skin and much greyer hair. Instead of the torn and muddied overcoat, he wears a coat made from deer hide with wooden and bone clasps down the front. His fur lined hat and red scarf, too, look new. But those eyes as black as coal, that kind smile that hides his fangs, and a face that belies centuries of life, are unmistakable. Instead of Ameer, Regis smiles at him.

Geralt starts at the apparition, eyes wide, unable to tear his gaze away. He knew the full extent of Fox Mother illusions, had seen them many times for himself, but this? This is something different entirely.

“What the hell?” He looks this new form up and down. An identical, accurate portrayal of his old vampire friend. Side by side, he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

Quickly, Geralt stands up and walks over to Regis-Ameer, walking around him. Not a single grey hair on his head is out of place. On his shoulder a bag filled with herbs is slung – if this were the real world, not stuck in the medallion, he has no doubt he’d be able to smell the garlic and mandrake neatly collected inside.

“I’m impressed.” He finds himself smiling, and claps Regis-Ameer on the shoulder. “I’m very impressed.”

Regis-Ameer smiles, and embraces him. Geralt freezes. He understands what the aguara is trying to do. Realising Geralt’s loneliness and frustration, he’s changing into the forms of his friends to try and cheer him up.

Geralt pushes down the knot in his throat and carefully reciprocates the embrace. Confidence comes to him, hesitation leaves him, and he hugs Regis-Ameer more tightly. The illusion is impossible to discern from reality, but it’s still a cheap exchange for the real article. And yet Geralt hugs him like Regis is really there. He does not have the luxury of being picky right now.

Regis-Ameer steps backwards, bows theatrically, then looks down at himself. His appearance suddenly changes once more, and a very different form takes its place. Shorter again, a more shapely figure, expensive clothes of black and white. Raven black hair is curled and unruly, yet flawless in every strand. Violet eyes watch him on a sharp, perfect face.

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. This time, he finds himself unable to move or speak as Yennefer-Ameer stands in front of him. Oh, how badly he wishes this was real.

Yennefer-Ameer stands on tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek. This time, Geralt is the one to initiate the embrace. Hesitantly and somewhat painfully, but just as tight and desperate.

Yennefer-Ameer smiles, then takes his hand. They walk together along the stone ledge of the courtyards, looking out across the beautiful scenery. Except Geralt doesn’t look at the scenery at all. He only has eyes for the person walking in front of him. His grip on Yennefer-Ameer’s hand must be painful from how tightly he’s holding it. The only thing missing is her signature scent – there is no smell of lilac and gooseberries here. The spiritual Kaer Morhen has limits on the illusions, it seems; visual apparitions only, no auditory or olfactory senses being twisted. 

Soon, the form changes once again. Black hair becomes ashen grey, violet eyes turn green, and a scar forms on the cheek of her, or his, face.

“Ciri.” He smiles. Ciri-Ameer walks onto the ledge, balancing along the top of the walls as she did when she trained in Kaer Morhen so long ago. He walks alongside Ciri-Ameer, who walks a little too quickly – a slab of stone comes loose on the wall, and when Ciri-Ameer loses balance, Geralt grabs his wrist to stop him from plummeting down the mountainside. Ciri-Ameer smiles in relief, and jumps down from the ledge, deciding to walk with Geralt instead. His heart is burning with those feelings of painful nostalgia and love.

See, illusions like these are always a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it’s his only opportunity to see his friends and loved ones. See them right in front of him. Touch them. Hold them closely. And after being stuck and alone in this metal prison, it fills him with such relief.

And yet, it’s a stark reminder of how much he misses them. How isolated he is from them. It only increases his burning urge to truly be with them, to truly touch them and speak to them. Somehow, the illusions simultaneously quench his loneliness, and rouse it even more painfully than before.

That’s not all. The illusions also come with a terrifying possibility: this may be the closest he comes to ever seeing his family again.

He must savour this every moment. With love and fear. For it may be the last time he sees them.

Eventually, he turns to Ciri-Ameer. He wants to say sorry – for his anger, his childish behaviour, his recklessness. But he isn’t sure how to communicate that message.

He blinks, and Ciri-Ameer has turned back into just Ameer. He tilts his head, points at Geralt, then traces a smile across his face. _Are you cheered up?_

Geralt nods. This time, he doesn’t have to force a smile. The frustration is gone. He won’t run off stupidly and put himself at risk again. The fear still hangs over him, ominous and constant, but he refuses to let it overtake him, refuses to let his desperation turn him into a fool.

He could die. True. But he trusts his loved ones – Yennefer, Ciri, Regis. They won’t rest until they’ve done everything they possibly can. And even if they fail, they won’t rest until they’ve avenged him.

He can’t do anything to help. But he won’t let panic consume him. Fear won’t do anything to help, and will only make him miserable.

So, he nods. He hopes Ameer can understand – _sorry, and thank you for keeping me out of trouble_.

Ameer smiles, pleased that he was able to help. But soon, he starts to fade. His peripheries are turning gradually transparent. He’s waking up.

Geralt doesn’t panic this time, though. He doesn’t allow himself to get frustrated. Next time Ameer visits him in this strange dreamscape, Geralt will try again to warn him. He’ll give up on trying to find the right memory, but that doesn't mean he won't stop trying to help him. No matter what. Because, even without his body, that’s something that no one can take away from him.

Ameer fades away. And Geralt is alone once again. But this time, he smiles. He thinks about the touch of Yennefer, Ciri, Regis against his arm, the feel of their hand in his own, their faces, their entire beings. He relishes the memory, and he smiles. It’s a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

And he doesn’t feel so alone anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a Season of Storms, Geralt actually sees an aguara turn into a loved one - the Fox Mother turns into Yennefer, who he has been pining for in a lot of the book. However, in the comic 'Fox Children', the Fox Mother simply allows Geralt to touch her face, a privilege which presumably no human, or at least very few, have ever had before. I decided to follow the comic in this instance, as I do for a lot of this story - at least for the simple fact that flicking through a comic is waaaaaaay easier than slogging through the entirety of Season of Storms when I'm fact-checking details!


	10. Scoia'tael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I last uploaded, I'm sorry about the wait!! The course has been busy, and this has been one hell of a long chapter!! Honestly it's been one of those ones I've had to keep chopping and changing about a million times, it's really been kicking my ass lol, and at 22k words it's by far the longest chapter of this story!! I am so ready to not have to write or edit this one anymore after all this time ahahaha! If you'd like more frequent updates on this story in between chapters, my tumblr is dol--blathanna and my Instagram is _dolblathanna, the latter of which I'm planning to put more regular updates on e.g. how near I am to updating etc.   
> Thank you all so so so so much for your patience, I hope it's worth the wait!!  
> Also, book spoilers for this chapter!

_“The story of the one known as the White Rose of Shaerrawedd is both sad and tragic. Over two hundred years ago Aelirenn led elven youth into a hopeless fight against humans. This heroic dash could end in only one way. They died for freedom, for stone and marble of their cities... and for Aelirenn. Just as she promised, they died with dignity, heroism, honor, yet elves could not raise again after that defeat. However she remains a symbol of fighting for freedom to this day, and elven insurgents go to battle with her name on their lips.” – The Life and Death of the White Rose_

The crow stares at Regis with glassy, vacant eyes.

Perched on a branch just above him, it stares down at his position in the fork of an orange and brown leaved oak tree. Unlike other birds, it does not cock its head, or shift its position with neat little hops, or preen its feathers. It just stares at him.

Regis shifts uncomfortably. He’s been sitting in this tree branch for almost a full hour now. The moss feels springy underneath his palms, and a twig keeps prodding into the back of his head whenever the wind blows. Tatanu sits on his shoulder, huddled closely to his head, his feathers tickling Regis’s cheek.

Still the crow stares at him. An empty vessel. Just staring unwaveringly.

He has no doubt that this crow is under the Crone’s thrall. But it hasn’t attacked him. It’s just watched. At first, Regis had tried to scare it off, worried about the Crone spying on them. It hadn’t flinched. He’d thrown a small stone at it. Despite hitting it directly on the chest, the crow didn’t even react.

Quickly, he gave up. At least the Crone is spying on Regis, and not on anyone else.

The tree he sits in surrounds a small clearing. Across from him, sitting in an autumnal-coloured beech, is Ameer. Like Regis, he remains very still, staring down at the clearing intensely. In the bushes below him, the only sign Regis can see of Juru is her amber eyes, just visible from beneath the foliage. She has been instructed by Ameer not to bother Zoltan, who is crouched down next to her, similarly hidden by the undergrowth.

Also sitting in the beech is Witold, leaning on an ivy-covered branch for support. He insisted coming with them on this mission, as he knows these forests far better than they do. Regis also suspects that Witold worries about him – in his mind, Regis is simply an old man with vague, unexplained magic. He probably wants to provide support in case Regis keels over from a heart attack or some other medical emergency.

Of course, he has no idea that Regis is the last person he should worry about. Should anyone’s life be endangered, Regis will not hesitate to intervene; he’ll simply have to rely on Ameer to keep his vampire nature hidden from Witold.

In the middle of the clearing, a deer is browsing. It noses away the multitude of fallen leaves on the ground to reach the dry, dying grass underneath. Occasionally, it will lift its head and stare into the bushes, as if startled by a noise, before lowering its head down and grazing again.

It has cycled through this behaviour for the past hour on repeat. Ameer keeps his gaze entirely focused on the illusion. A few paces in front of the deer, the fallen leaves are particularly concentrated. Beneath it lies a net, strung over a deep pit used by the villagers to stop predators getting too close to the village. It had become overgrown and shallow over time, so they hastily dug it out again for their experiment. If an animal or monster approaches the deer, and walks over trap, it’ll fall into the pit. The net will be dragged down under it, which they can use to contain the creature more easily. Normally, the villagers would just attack the animal with spears while it was stuck in the pit, but they need the creature alive for this experiment.

Unfortunately, they have no idea how large the animal or monster could be. A simple ghoul could appear, or something as large as a bear. They’ve tried to expand the pit and make it as big as they could, as deep as they could, without it being too obvious. There’s always a chance that something too dangerous for them to catch could appear – the leshen, for one. If that happens, they’ll simply flee from the situation and abandon their mission.

While Yennefer and Shani stay in the village, helping out with that hydromancy plan Triss had concocted, Ameer has decided to try out his own experiment. The Fox Mother they met by the river was unclear what powers and trickery worked on the Crone – knowing what works, and how well, could be important in both finding her and potentially fighting her, if it comes down to that. Of course, Ameer will not face the Crone himself, but he could teach Yennefer the right spells, or give her a talisman if necessary.

But nothing has happened so far. No monster or animal has appeared. And this isn’t the first location they’ve set a trap in either – they’ve already wasted a few hours in other areas of the forest, hiding until their legs seized up while no monster or animal graced their presence.

It’s tiring work. Sitting still for hours and hours has allowed the cold to creep up on them insidiously, numbing their aching and tense bodies. Even Regis can feel the miserable pain in his immortal body, feels the cold sapping away at his energy.

Over in the tree, Regis can see Witold’s head beginning to nod. He woke up earlier than everyone else to do odd jobs around the village, and his fatigue is clearly showing. Ameer quickly nudges him so he doesn’t fall asleep – and fall out of the tree.

“Sorry.” Witold stifles a yawn, securing his grip on the tree branches. “I’m awake.”

“Do you want me to pinch you?” Ameer suggests earnestly, eyes flicking from the clearing. His voice is quiet, and concealed from the forest around them by illusion.

Witold hesitates, amused by the sincerity in Ameer’s voice. “Uh…I think I’ll pass.” He rubs his eyes, then blows on his hands. “What I wouldn’t do for a hot pie right now…”

“With beef and gravy, and root vegetables, and a thick crust.” Ameer joins in wistfully. “And a bowl of cream of wheat with butter and honey afterwards.”

Witold raises an eye brow. “Oh? You got a sweet tooth?”

“Hm?”

“You like sweet things, I mean.”

“Ah. Yes, I do. Especially honey. Anything can be made better with honey.” Ameer sighs. “Honey cakes, honey _spiced_ cakes, wheat honey biscuits, harcha, baklava…and those are only the sweet foods. Sticky honey chicken, or salmon basted with honey and garlic…The list goes on.”

“Mm, sticky honey chicken.” Witold sighs, closing his eyes again and resting his head uncomfortably back against a branch. “That does sound good…” He trails off. Ameer quickly leans over, this time flicking him on the forehead. “I’m awake, I’m awake.”

“Are you _sure_ you do not want me to pinch you?”

“…All right. Just on the arm – ow!”

Ameer, having leaned over and pinched him on the shoulder, grins. “Is that better?”

Witold rubs his shoulder. “I suppose so…” He admits begrudgingly, though the fond smile on his face betrays his tone.

Neither of them have noticed the crow.

Neither of them have noticed its empty, hollow stare. Its unwavering gaze. Its straggly, haggard feathers. Each time Regis opens his mouth to tell them, the words die. It’s as if acknowledging its presence to the others will cause something terrible to happen, no matter how nonsensical that might be. And yet, Regis struggles to look away from the fathomless eyes, either.

Eventually, more movement from the bushes below catches Regis’s attention, breaking the hold the crow has on him. It’s Zoltan, who hasn’t seemed to have noticed it either. He yawns from the bushes, leaning against Juru. “Gods, somethin’ better show up soon. If we’ve wasted all this time freezin’ our arses off for nothin’, I’ll be pissed.”

“Bet you’re wishing you’d volunteered to help Yennefer and that Miss Merigold, huh?” Witold grins at him.

But Zoltan quickly shakes his head. “No thank you. I’d prefer bein’ out here with the beasts than suffer through all that awkwardness.”

Witold frowns. “What’re you talking about?” He hadn’t actually heard Zoltan regaling the tale of Yennefer and Triss’s complicated relationship.

“It is a long story.” Ameer shakes his head. “And we have more important things to focus on.”

“Are we sure somethin’s even gonna show? Maybe we should move again.” Zoltan suggests. “We’ve been here a while now, and I haven’t heard so much as a growl.”

“…A few more minutes.” Ameer decides, looking back down at the illusory deer. “Then we shall try our luck somewhere else.”

Regis looks up at the crow. Is this crow spying on them? Is it communicating with the Crone and her minions in some unseen way?

Abruptly, the crow flies away. Regis tenses. He readies himself.

A wolf stalks into the clearing. This one looks very different to Juru, though. Its fur is matted with dirt and blood. Its muzzle drips with saliva. And its eyes have the same vacant gleam as the crow.

Regis can’t see any other wolves with it. Very unusual for wolf behaviour – but this isn’t a wolf anymore, not really.

In the tree, Ameer leans forwards slightly, face taut. Below him, the deer startles and clumsily skitters away. The wolf takes chase –

And falls into the pit. Regis hears furious snarling from inside as Witold jumps down from the tree, drawing the ends of the net together.

“It worked. Your illusions tricked it.” He says, tying the ends net securely.

Slowly, Ameer climbs down the tree and approaches the pit. He no longer uses crutches – a result of his naturally fast and magically-enhanced healing. At the edge of the pit, he looks sadly down at the thrashing wolf. Juru stays close to him, ears flat back, whining softly.

“Yes. As I thought, her thrall does not give them immunity from my powers.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jar filled with green paste. “There is something else I wanted to try specifically, though. Will you bring it up here?”

Together, Zoltan and Witold haul up the snarling wolf. It takes some effort – wolves are heavy creatures, after all. But the closer they drag the wolf to the surface, the more it thrashes and snaps. With each heave, it seems to move with more and more range.

On his shoulder, Tatanu suddenly takes off, flying around the pit in a circle. _Hole-rope broke! Bad wolf eat hole-rope!_

Instantly, Regis runs forwards. “Wait! The net has snapped!”

His warning comes a moment too late. Witold and Zoltan pull up the net before his sentence ends. Neither have the chance to register the huge hole the wolf has managed to chew through the net, or to register the fact that the wolf can now fit almost half its body through. And neither do they have the chance to move or back away as the wolf lunges forwards, growling and gnashing savagely. It pounces towards Witold, jaws open to maul his face.

Then it’s jerked back. It snaps and snarls, straining to get closer to Witold. But Ameer holds it back, having grabbed it by the scruff. He was closer than Regis, and faster than the wolf, but even he barely managed to grab it in time; its muzzle is only inches away from Witold’s face. Having fallen backwards in surprise, Witold can only stare in shock at the yellowed fangs and dripping saliva. Had Ameer not grabbed the wolf in time, Witold wouldn’t have much of a face left by now.

Enraged, the wolf snarls and tries to turn its head to snap at Ameer’s face. But with nonchalant ease, and just a glimmer of contempt, Ameer slams the wolf onto the ground and pins it down, making use of his surprising vulpess strength. He looks over at Witold with an amused smirk. “That was a close one! I bet you are fully awake now, yes?”

Witold just sits for a moment, staring between the two of them, stunned. He runs a hand over his face, his closeness to death fully sinking in. Juru trots over to him, giving his face a worried sniff before licking him on the cheek, but he barely even notices. “…Holy shit.”

“Are you hurt?” Ameer asks, growing concerned.

“No, no.” He looks up. “Almost added some brand-new facial scars to my collection there, but I’m not hurt. That was close. I didn’t even realise it had…” He looks at Ameer. “Thank you. If you hadn’t grabbed it…Thank you.”

Ameer smiles pleasantly, completely ignoring the rabid wolf that writhes and snarls under his grip. “I am glad you are not hurt.” Then he looks up at Regis. “Could you handle this please?”

“Of course.” After a moment of hesitation, Regis steps forwards and locks his arm around the wolf’s neck, trusting Ameer to disguise the action. The wolf wriggles and squirms in Regis’s grip, but its hind legs are still trapped in the net. It does a bloody good job trying, though, and manages to catch Regis’s arms – and his chin – with its fangs. Of course, the wounds close up almost instantly. Cautiously, Regis glances up at Witold, who stares at the scene with something of awed relief. Ameer walks over to Witold, gaze focused, and holds out his hand. For a brief second, Regis could swear his pupils were slit like a fox.

Carefully, Ameer helps Witold to his feet, who looks at Regis and the wolf. “That’s an impressive spell.” He comments not on the healing wounds, the blood, the tears in Regis’s sleeves, but on some invisible spell only he can see. Zoltan glances confusedly between Regis and Witold, but when he catches sight of Ameer’s intent face, he wisely stays quiet.

“Thank you.” Regis replies politely, wondering what Ameer conjured. “It seems we were foolish to use a net – a normal wolf might struggle to get through the rope, but it seems the Crone’s thrall gives her animals some…advantages.”

“I think you are right, Regis.” Ameer casually brushes off some dirt from Witold’s shoulder. “We should be more careful in the future; these animals seem to have enhanced strength and speed.” When he sees Witold’s stunned face, he frowns. “What is it?”

“Uh, nothing.” He says, quickly glancing away as he runs a hand through his hair. “Just…You’re a lot stronger than you look. And faster.”

Ameer shrugs nonchalantly. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“You’re right about that.” Witold smiles a little awkwardly. But when Ameer turns away, taking out the jar of green paste and approaching the wolf, he doesn’t see how Witold’s gaze follows him. An unusual mixture of admiration and complete, utter bewilderment. Why? Has he really been travelling alone for so long, that he’s forgotten what it’s like to have someone watching out for him? Regis watches him in puzzlement. Had it been Zoltan who almost had his face ripped off by the wolf, surely he’d be grateful and relieved, perhaps a little startled – but not so taken aback like this. What a strange man, that simple acts of companionship and teamwork rattle him so. At the very least, he’s certainly looking at Ameer in an entirely different way than before. Maybe he’s simply surprised that a man of Ameer’s stature has such strength. It must be strange to someone who doesn’t know about Ameer’s aguara nature. When Witold catches Regis looking, though, he quickly wipes the expression off his face and follows Ameer.

“All right.” Ameer kneels down. “I want to try the spell I cast on Juru, see if I can help it break free of her thrall. If this is possible, it would give you a great advantage in the swamps, I think.”

Cautiously, Ameer unscrews the jar lid and scoops out some of the paste he used on Juru. When he daubs the same symbol on the wolf’s chest, it growls so loudly that its whole body shakes.

Ameer doesn’t flinch. He paints the symbol on his own chest, then holds out his hands and begins chanting. Slowly, the paste begins to glow. But Regis quickly realises that something is wrong.

The glow is far duller than before, when Ameer cast the spell on Juru. It flickers dimly, like a dying candle struggling against a gale.

Frowning, Ameer tries again more forcefully. The glow struggles, flickering, trying desperately to shine. Ameer forces his hands out, pushing against some unseen resistance. At his effort, the paste glows brightly, turning a deep green. The symbol appears in the air, as it did with Juru, though it trembles fragilely.

Then it suddenly turns red. And instead of a pleasant chime like before, a harsh screech sounds out across the clearing.

Ameer gasps, collapsing to his hands and knees. The glow promptly fades, and the symbol dissolves into ash, while the wolf continues growling and thrashing, its eyes as vacant as before.

“Are you all right?” Regis hurriedly asks. “Are you hurt?”

Panting, Ameer wipes the paste shakily from his chest. “She is too strong. I could not…I was too weak.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself; the Crone is not a foe we should underestimate.” Regis tells him gently.

Witold looks down at the wolf, which still writhes in Regis's grip - or, in his point of view, under his spell. “Suppose we’ll have to kill it. If it were a normal wolf, I might let it go, but…”

“It’s too dangerous now.” Zoltan finishes heavily.

Ameer approaches the wolf again. He glances at Juru. “You should get back.”

Whining, Juru backs away, leaning against Witold’s leg. He scratches her behind the ears.

“You volunteering, then?” He asks. “I can do it, if you want.”

“No. I can relieve it of any pain.” He outstretches his palm, which begins to glow softly. “It may be mindlessly evil now, but it was not always that way. The wolf it once was deserves a kinder death with no pain.”

Unsheathing his knife, he kneels down beside it. With one hand, he hovers the magic over its head. The wolf relaxes, stops thrashing and growling. And with the other hand, he cuts the wolf’s throat.

It dies quickly. Despite its vacant eyes, Regis feels a wave of sympathy for the creature as he gently lets go of it. More strongly, he feels disgust. What kind of ‘sovereign’ or ‘protector’, as the people of Velen claim the Crone to be, turns her creatures into mindless killing machines?

Ameer sighs, looking down at the wolf. “It is done.”

“Poor wretch.” Witold shakes his head, petting Juru some more. She licks his hand miserably. “At least it’s not suffering anymore.”

“What should we do now?” Zoltan asks. “Move it further away from the village for animals to feed on?”

“I do not think any scavenging animals will touch it.” Ameer laments.

“Well, let’s bury it, then.” Witold suggests. “We can do that much at least. We’ve got a pit right here.”

As they talk, a flutter of wings catches Regis’s attention. He looks into the branches of the oak.

The crow has returned. It perches on a mossy branch. Just like the wolf, it watches them with vacant, glossy eyes.

Regis frowns. He swallows. "Do you see that crow? It's been watching us for a while now.”

It happens without warning.

No one has the chance to respond to Regis’s statement. For a bear charges into the clearing.

Over eight feet tall, it bats the wolf’s corpse away like a ragdoll. Impossibly fast. Then it brings its huge paw down on Ameer.

But Ameer is faster. He jumps backwards, barely avoiding those brutal claws. His hand flies to the medallion under his clothes – safe. With his other hand, he sends a burst of green flame towards the bear.

But it misses. The bear dodges, too fast, and changes its target. So agile for such a large, bulky beast. It turns on Zoltan and Witold instead, swiping a paw down on them. Zoltan throws himself out of the way, scrambling for his axe, and backing away towards Regis. Witold, with surprising speed, has managed to avoid the bear’s swipe, and quickly unsheathes his sword. The bear swings its head round to face him, muzzle dripping with saliva.

“Get back!” Regis shouts, hoping the loud sound of his voice will draw its attention to him, instead of his mortal companions. “It’s too big!”

The bear, however, continues stalking towards Witold, who holds his sabre with stony faced determination. Juru stands in front of him bravely, snarling. Regis shifts his claws – that thing will kill them both in an instant.

An old man suddenly appears in the clearing. As if out of thin air. Grey beard, bony legs, straw hat, bent over a walking stick. At the sight of the bear, he cries aloud.

Regis feels a soft hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards. “Not yet.” Ameer breathes, his focus entirely on the bear. Regis quickly shifts his claws back when he sees the flash of horror sparking behind Ameer’s eyes.

The bear turns to face the old man – the illusion. And Regis sees its eyes.

But these eyes aren’t empty like the crow or the wolf. These eyes are burning.

In those round, piercing eyes, a storm of malevolence and hatred and ancient evil churns. Instantly, Regis understands.

He falls to his knees, hand clamped over his mouth. He feels sick.

Right now, that bear isn’t just a minion of the Crone. Right now, those eyes do not belong solely to the bear.

Right now, the Crone is watching them.

Viciously, the bear turns on the illusory old man, who falls backwards in fright. Easier prey than an armed man and a wolf. A terrible claw rakes against his abdomen, spraying blood onto the grass.

“What do we do?” Zoltan whispers, walking carefully over to Regis. No doubt he has realised the old man is just an illusion.

“Watch.” Regis answers. “And slowly back away.”

Witold joins him, sword still pointed at the beast. Juru has stopped growling, perhaps sensing the need for silence. “What’s happening?”

“It’s the Crone. She’s controlling it directly.”

The bear – the Crone – is taking a cruelly long time to kill this ‘man’. Dragging claws across his body, tearing flesh and skin with agonising slowness. Regis is accustomed to gore, but even he winces at the sight of the man’s guts falling out of his abdomen.

The bear roars again, maliciously and full of delight. It raises up a paw to swipe down again.

And stops.

Her gaze has fallen on Regis and his group. He almost buckles under her intense stare. She looks over at Ameer, who backs quickly away, averting his gaze. Sharply, the bear looks down at the man again. The muzzle creases with a snarl that turns into a roar. For a second, she turns to stare, risen on her hind legs, towering over them. Regis tenses, prepares to jump forwards, to receive all the damage and kill the bear.

But without warning, she turns abruptly. The bear runs from the clearing, stomping nonchalantly through the illusory man as she does so. At her absence, a brief silence overtakes the clearing.

That silence is broken as Ameer staggers backwards, leaning heavily against a tree trunk. The illusory man vanishes from view as he stands, breathing hard, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“You all right?” Witold asks in concern.

Ameer nods, panting. “Yes…Allow me a minute, please…”

Zoltan, face pale, whispers to Regis. “I bet she ran away because she knew you could kill the bear, right? We might’ve died, but you could’ve killed it easily.”

“I…” Regis’s mind has turned blank. He feels as if his entire body is paralysed.

Those evil, burning eyes. So ancient, so unfathomably old. The eyes of a Tusail.

That was her. She was right there. Watching them.

“Regis?” Zoltan’s voice shatters his paralysis. “What’s wrong?”

“…She was right there.” Panic surges up through Regis. “She was _right there_.”

She met Tye. And she was right there.

Desperate instinct takes over Regis. He doesn’t bother discussing with the others.

He just starts running.

“Regis! What’re you doing?” Zoltan shouts after him in alarm. Regis doesn’t answer.

The Crone was right there. She is the only person who might know where Tye is. How could he be so foolish? So cowardly? Paralysed by her evil glare?

He needs to catch up with her. If he can get her to tell him about Tye, there won’t be any need to travel to the orphanage! They can leave this awful land that’s so rife with danger! He can’t let her leave. He’s the only one who can interrogate her in that bear and not risk dying by her claws.

It’s not difficult following her trail. Even if he couldn’t smell her sickening aura, or the natural stench of an adult bear, he can easily see large paw prints in the mud and disturbed vegetation. Quickly shifting into mist, he flies through the swampy forest, bypassing all the natural obstacles, the dread in his mind getting stronger and stronger –

And there she is. Still hiding inside the mind of that bear as it trawls through the undergrowth.

Regis rematerializes. Already, fear is beginning to creep up his limbs, paralyzingly. But he shouts as loud as he can.

“Weavess!”

Instantly, the bear stops in her tracks. Very slowly, she turns around.

Again, Regis almost buckles under the weight of her terrible stare. But he remains standing.

“You met Tye.” He surprises himself by keeping his voice steady. “The man we search for.”

She says nothing.

“I know you met him – and you gave him something. Where has he gone?”

Still, she says nothing. Around her, those vacant-eyed crows are beginning to gather.

“Tell me. Where is he?” Regis demands.

The crows are gathering more and more in number around the silent bear, until there seems to be more black feathers than leaves in the trees.

“Where has he gone? What did you give him?” Regis’s voice is becoming less and less confident. “Tell me.”

The bear doesn’t move. But, one by one, the crows’ beaks open.

“ _Silly little vampire_.” They caw discordantly, all at different times in a jarring, inharmonious chorus. “ _Thinking he can save his friend_.

Regis opens his mouth to speak – to demand how she knows this, if Tye told her – but nothing comes out. Horror freezes his voice.

“ _Only the steel of blade can ease the white wolf’s suffering_.” The crows continue. “ _Only death shall await the witcher_.”

“No.” Regis manages to blurt out. “You’re wrong.”

“ _Death shall await the witcher!_ ” They cry gleefully. “ _Death shall await the witcher!_ ”

“Shut up! You’re wrong!” Regis shouts, fuelled more by panic than anger. “Where is Tye?”

He looks at the bear. For a second, Regis hears something. Right in the back of his head. He swears he can hear laughter.

Then it blinks. And the Crone disappears. The eyes of the bear return – vacant and chilling, but missing the terrifying malice from them. The bear is simply a bear again.

And Regis has lost his chance to find out more about Tye.

He has no time to despair, though. For the bear is charging at him.

Gritting his teeth, Regis grounds himself. The bear rears up, brings its paw crashing down. Regis blocks it with his arm, almost sagging under its strength. He shifts his other arm, and thrusts his claws into the bear’s exposed abdomen.

The bear roars in rage as blood spurts from the wound. Quickly, though, it falls. Regis pushes it onto the ground, which seems to quiver from its heaviness. The life leaves its eyes, its soul escaping from the body that became its prison.

Regis barely has a second to breathe in relief before the next assault starts. This time, the crows mob him, cawing and shrieking in his ears. Instinctively, Regis covers his face, swatting the crows away with his clawed hand. Occasionally something connects – he hears a thud of the crow dropping to the ground – but he’s driven backwards by their assault.

For a moment, he decides to turn to mist and evade their assault. But quickly, he decides against this – better he deal with this attack than fleeing and leading them back to his mortal companions.

Even if he wanted to flee, though, Regis doesn’t get the chance.

The crows drive him backwards – and he trips over the bear’s corpse. Regis falls, his back hitting ground. Except he hears a loud creak, a sharp snap, beneath him. Not ground. Old plants covering a pit. Not unlike the trap he laid for the wolf.

The plants, weakened already by the bear, give way beneath him, and Regis is falling into darkness. Further, further. Then pain explodes at the back of his skull, and he passes out.

-

He wakes to the sensation of something tugging at his earlobe.

Coldness has enveloped Regis completely, and the back of his head aches dully. Groaning, Regis opens his eyes. Automatically, they adapt and shift to nocturnal vision. He’s lying on cold ground – at the bottom of a very deep pit.

Next to him, he hears a flapping of wings, feels a brush of feathers against his cheek, and a beaked face looks down at him.

_Vampire friend awake!_ Tatanu seems relieved. _Vampire friend sleep I stay I guard vampire friend! Bad rat I attack I protect vampire friend!_

Regis spies a rat’s corpse to the side – no doubt one last minion sent by the Crone to bother him.

_Thank you_. Regis smiles. _You’re very brave. How long was I asleep?_

_Long time!_ Hm, not very precise. Judging from the chill on him, he’s probably been unconscious for perhaps half an hour. And to be unconscious for that long, he must’ve hit his head extremely hard. Head wounds always have the tendency to incapacitate him, and take much longer to heal than the rest of his body.

Sighing, he slowly sits up, running his hand over the back of his head. All healed, all intact. Though the large and gory stains of blood and cranial matter on the stone ground suggest that this was not the case when he landed. His skull must’ve been cracked open like an egg shell – no wonder he’s been unconscious for so long.

Brushing off specks of dirt and fallen leaves from his clothes, he stands up. Immediately, a stench of blood hits him. Not his own, though – a few paces away, he sees the corpse of the bear that the Crone had possessed. It fell down with him, then, though its body isn’t nearly as mangled as Regis’s was from the fall.

The pit is much larger than he thought, with numerous tunnels branching off in various directions, while the opening of the pit is deceptively small; Regis looks up, and estimates it must only be a few metres in size. There’s no surprise that he failed to notice it underneath the weak roots and dead leaves.

More pressing, though, is the depth of the pit. It’s several metres deep, the opening at least twenty feet above him. Any human would be dead instantly from a fall of this height. Regis isn’t sure if he’ll be able to climb up in mist form; the sides are incredibly steep. Could he climb out normally? No, whatever footholds there are look precarious at best, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time unconsciously regenerating if he were to fall again. As he surveys the walls, something catches his eye.

In the darkness of the pit, a human’s eyes may have missed it. But underneath a clump of dirt and a branch of ivy, a flash of red and white is just visible.

Strange. The rock in this region does not show these colours naturally. No chalk, certainly no kind of red stone. Carefully, Regis pulls away the ivy and brushes away the dirt.

The image of a person has been painted onto the walls. Very simplistic in style, a vague outline made with block colours and no discernible facial features. This one shows a person, a woman? Holding out her arms, not unlike the pose of the Crone statues…

Feeling a tight knot of dread in his stomach, Regis carefully moves away more soil and vegetation from the walls. More and more of the image is revealed to him.

Standing in the centre is the woman with her arms kindly outstretched. Around her are crudely drawn trees; below her, three long wavy lines that signify water. Around her head, three curved lines create some bloody halo, stacked on top of another. From her hands, red drops pour forth, past the trees and water, towards three new figures. Standing next to each other, they all have a single crooked spiral on their breasts. Their hands are painted upwards, as if in esteem of the central figure.

Regis steps backwards, moving away more dirt and roots. Now, he sees one more detail – no, details.

All around these figures, hands have been painted. Reaching out, desperately, adoringly, towards the four central figures. Painted in stark red and black.

“What on earth…” Regis stares at the mural, eyes passing over each detail intensely. When he looks upon the four figures, the dread he has become accustomed to tightens.

“Those three figures – each with the spiral – they’re the Crones, no doubt about it.” He muses to himself. “And the woman in the middle…perhaps she’s their mother. She-Who-Knows.” The being Yennefer told him about. This scene, perhaps it means to show the creation of the Crones?

Regis steps closer, so as to examine the mural more thoroughly. The paint here looks faded, chipped in places, extremely old. Who knows how many hundreds of years ago this was painted? The cold, sterile air of this underground cavern has helped keep the painting preserved.

As Regis looks closer, he notices a detail that he failed to see before. His gaze falls on one of the hands, reaching out with macabre love – and he realises there are six fingers here, not five. An extra finger after the normal middle one, of a similar length. It’s not just one mistake, either; every single hand has six fingers.

“…Not human, then.” Regis realises. “Or elf, for that matter. Perhaps…Perhaps this was created by the Old Folk that Ameer mentioned.” If that’s the case, then these drawings are even older than he first thought – by thousands of years.

Up above, distant noises catch his attention. Dirt and pebbles fall down the pit as something draws close. Regis looks up to see a lupine face looking down. Moments later, Ameer appears next to Juru. When his gaze falls upon Regis, relief overtakes his face.

“There you are.” He calls down, then turns to an unseen spectator. “Witold! Zoltan! Juru found him!”

Soon after, two more faces appear by the pit. “Are you all right?” Witold shouts worriedly. “Are you hurt? Shit, that’s one hell of a drop.”

“I’m fine.” Regis calls up reassuringly. “The bear broke my fall.”

“The bear broke – you killed the bear?”

“We told you he’s a good old mage.” Zoltan covers for him.

“Even so, I’d appreciate it if you’d think twice about running off like that again.” Witold admonishes him. “You could’ve been hurt.”

“I apologise.” Regis holds up his hands. “I admit, a moment of fool-hardiness overtook me. I won’t be so reckless again.”

Witold sighs. “Well, we’re glad you’re all right. And you’re lucky we had Juru to track you down.” He reaches down to stroke her head.

“What happened?” Ameer calls down. “Had she left the bear? Did she say anything?”

At the memory of those crows, of their message, Regis feels cold with dread. He swallows. “…She didn’t say anything.” He forces out, pushing down the sickening feeling within him. “The bear attacked. I killed it, and we fell in here together.”

Zoltan peers down the pit. “How’re you goin’ to get back up?”

“Don’t climb up.” Witold says quickly, afraid Regis might do something reckless again. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

“I could levitate you up?” Ameer suggests.

“No, he might bash his head on the sides.” Witold counters.

“There are some tunnels around here.” Regis tells them. “Perhaps there’s another entrance somewhere?”

“We’ll see what we can find.” Witold agrees. “Stay put. Worst place to get lost is in caves.”

When they leave, though, Regis has no intention of sitting around. He has no fear of caves, after all. He can see perfectly well in the dark, and has a good sense of direction. He won’t get lost, and besides, he’s very intrigued by these cave drawings. Perhaps they’ll reveal more information about the Crones?

With Tatanu perched on his shoulder, Regis slowly begins exploring the corridors. He chooses a path with more visible illustrations of the Crones, their mother and these illusive peoples. More images have been curated of these figures – bringing worship of food and animals, mainly. In one particularly unnerving image, he sees one of the six fingered people laid out on an altar for sacrifice. The air is cold and musty, and as he walks, blooms of dust arise with each footstep. There’s very little sign of life here apart from insects, which is a relief; it seems the Crone hasn’t bothered placing them under her thrall, for they scurry away when Regis passes them.

Fortunately, the paths aren’t confusing or labyrinthine. Even if Regis were to get lost, it’ll be easy to retrace his steps. More images pass by him, some more faded than others. Sacrifices, gifts to the Crones and their mother, hands reaching out in worship.

Eventually, Regis finds an image different from the others. The three Crones gather around their mother under a chart of moons – the full moon takes precedent, with the blazing sun above it. Hm…A solstice or equinox, perhaps? Regis doesn’t know much about astronomy, but seems to remember such dates having magical importance. Beneath that image, a new scene has been drawn: the Crones standing over their mother who now lies on the ground. Their hands are outstretched towards her, some unknown red energy streaking out at her. The last image shows a tree, branches long and forking. The three red halos surround the tree, which is covered in chains.

Regis understands. This shows the Crones killing their mother, and imprisoning her soul in a tree, marking the end of their war.

“Regis!” The sound of Zoltan’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Regis, can you hear us?”

His voice is coming from behind a large stone wall. No, not a wall – a door, Regis realises. Huge stone double doors, reaching from floor to ceiling. None of the elegant decoration found in elven ruins are present here; whether or not it’s due to the weathering of time, or if they were never present in the first place, Regis isn’t sure. The slabs look sturdy and thick, so Regis raises his voice to call to them.

“I’m here. I’m behind this door.”

“Oh, good. You all right?” Witold shouts.

“I’m fine. Though it seems we’ve reached a problem. I assume you can’t get the door open?”

“No. It will not move.” Ameer laments from the other side. “And I do not want to blast down the door, in case I bring down the entire tunnel.”

“Is there no other route?” Regis asks.

“No, not that we have seen. Juru would have smelt it, too.” Ameer explains. “Most of the tunnels are completely blocked with rubble. The other, she refused to go down – and I would rather not, too.”

“The good news is, we found a key.” Zoltan informs him cheerfully. “Bad news is, there’s no bloody lock.”

Carefully, Regis examines the door, running his hand across the smooth, cold stone. “Ah, here. The lock’s on my side.” Fortunately, the keyhole doesn’t look too damaged.

“Well, that’s great. What do we do?”

“Will it fit under the door?” Ameer asks.

“I’m afraid not.” Regis kneels down. “The gap isn’t big enough.” Infuriatingly, there’s enough room for him to squeeze through in mist form, but even with Ameer’s illusions there’d be no way to explain that.

“What about that?” He hears Zoltan call. “It looks like there’s a hole, just left of the frame. We could throw the key through.”

Regis looks up at the hole. It's high up on the wall, only a foot wide. “…No, the wall’s too thick.” He reports back. “It might get stuck. And I’m afraid it’s too sheer for me to climb up on this side to stick my arm through.”

“I can get through.” Ameer suddenly declares.

“How are you goin’ to – Ameer, don’t put that in your mouth!” Zoltan says in alarm.

Ameer doesn’t answer. Regis hears scrabbling against the wall, as if he’s climbing.

“It’s too thick to put your arm in – what the hell?!”

“Where’d he go?” Witold asks, bewildered. “Why’re his clothes fallen on the floor?”

The answer appears to Regis shortly. A small head pokes through the hole, and a sandy coloured fox stares down at him. In his mouth he carries a rusty key. Around his neck hangs a witcher’s medallion. And his eyes are a bright green.

“So it was big enough for your fox form?” Regis smiles. “Your _polymorph_ form?” He adds this for the sake of Witold.

Ameer nods his head, then looks down at the ground, paws shuffling at the edge of the hole.

“Here.” Regis walks forwards. With another shuffle of hesitation, looking Regis up and down as he considers the distance, Ameer jumps down from the hole. He lands on Regis’s shoulder, then quickly jumps down to firm ground using Regis as a ladder. Carefully, he places the key down on the ground, shakes out his fur, and chirps.

“Thank you.” Regis kneels down to pick up the key, looking over Ameer in interest as he does so. His ears are larger than red foxes, and his whiskered snout smaller. His fur, ranging from sandy to white to black at the tip of a bushy tail, is somewhat thicker than Regis expected. Though, he supposes, the desert can be cold at night, and the fur would protect him from the scorching burn of the sun in the day. His paw pads are covered in fur, and his claws look primed for digging.

Regis refrains from taking out a notebook and writing this all down. He’s never seen a desert fox before, after all. He’s not the only curious one; as Regis carefully unlocks the door, moving slowly so as not to break the old key, Tatanu flies down from his shoulder and lands by Ameer, jumping around him excitedly.

_Fox friend? Fox friend fox not elf friend?_

Ameer bears this patiently. Goodness, he is very small. He must be only 8 or 9 inches tall; Tatanu is easily taller than him. He must be tiny compared to a red fox. The medallion in particular makes him look small – the wolf head is now comically large on him, and almost dragging on the ground.

With a heavy click, the door unlocks. Regis pushes it forwards, the stone groaning, sending dust and cobwebs scattering about him. He hears a grunt from the other side, and Witold opens the door with him.

“There you are.” Zoltan holds two torches. An orb of green flame hovers between them, no doubt a spell from Ameer.

Witold walks over hurriedly, taking Regis by the shoulders and turning him this way and that, searching for any sign of injuries. “You all right? You hurt?”

“I’m fine, I assure you.”

“How have you been walking round here in this darkness? It’s –” He breaks off, staring at the paintings on the wall, at the multitude of stretching hands. “…Well, that’s creepy as fuck.”

“Cave paintings. Most likely thousands of years old.”

“Six fingers.” Witold observes immediately. “Not humans or elves, then…I bet a historian would be overjoyed finding something like this, but somehow I can’t say I share that enthusiasm.” His eyes become thoughtful, wary. “She’s been alive even longer than I thought. That’s a bit frightening, if I’m honest.” He shakes his head. “Should’ve painted something a bit cheerier, I reckon. Like…a dog or something.”

Regis smiles. “Yes, that would certainly by more light-hearted.”

“What the hell?” Zoltan’s voice comes from behind them, but he’s not looking at the paintings. “Ameer?”

Sitting with his tail wrapped neatly around him, Ameer barks in confirmation. His eyes glow somewhat ominously in Zoltan’s torch light.

Despite this, Zoltan’s reaction is one of glee. “Ha, look at you! You’re like a cuddly toy.”

Witold crouches down next to him. “So this is polymorph…He’s right. You do look like a cuddly toy.” He reaches out, as if to stroke Ameer’s head, but retracts at the last second. “It’s definitely you in there, right? You’re not pulling a trick on us or something?”

As if to answer, Ameer leans over and lightly nips his finger. Then he yawns and stretches, showing tiny fangs and claws like brambles. He really is small. That thought turns from amusement to alarm when Juru bounds over to him curiously, nudging him excitedly with her muzzle. Between her size and enthusiasm, she ends up knocking him over.

But the sight instils sharp horror in Regis. Yes, Juru is friendly, but there are plenty of wolves here who aren’t. All they’d need to do is shake him in their jaws and it’d be all over for Ameer. Forget a wolf, an owl might be able to carry him off, or even another larger red fox.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be walking around in that form.” Regis tells him.

“Of course not! Looks like Juru could gobble him up!” With no hesitation over the fact this fox is normally an elf, Zoltan scoops up Ameer in his arms. “We’ll carry you.”

Ameer mews in surprise and, upon his face being shoved in Zoltan’s beard, sneezes. He looks up at Zoltan with an air of indignance, his ears back.

“Sorry mate, but I think a wolf could snatch him out of your arms pretty easily. No offence.” Witold points out.

“All right, then someone else hold him.” Zoltan holds him out aloft. “Regis, you take him.”

“I am not a plaything to be passed about.” Ameer’s voice suddenly sounds. An image of his elf form appears, standing with his arms folded and a frown on his face. Before anyone can ask, he clarifies, “this is an illusion. The real me is the fox. Please, handle me correctly.”

“Apologies, Ameer.” Regis takes him carefully, holding him like a cat. “We don’t mean to mishandle you.”

Ameer shifts slightly to get himself comfortable, his paws perched on Regis’s forearm. His fur is soft under Regis’s fingers, surprisingly silky.

“All right, let’s get out of here.” Witold gestures to the group, pausing to collect up Ameer’s clothes, bow and quiver. “Don’t particularly want to spend any more time with these creepy paintings.”

“I second that.” Zoltan says cheerfully. “Lead the way.”

In the end, it’s Juru who they follow. Her keen nose – and her eagerness to get out of these tunnels – prevents them from getting lost down various branching paths as she leads the way. She walks quickly, and the others share her enthusiasm to get out from these underground channels. If one of the Crone’s minions were to come down here, a fight in such an enclosed space would be difficult.

Soon, they reach another branching path. However, Juru reacts differently this time. Instantly, her hackles raise, and she walks well away from the tunnel entrance.

She’s not the only one, either. As soon as Ameer sees it, his ears go flat against his skull, and he shrinks back in Regis’s arms. On his shoulder, Tatanu caws nervously to himself.

“What’s the matter?” Regis asks.

Ameer’s illusion stares warily at the tunnel. “Mm…I do not know. But I do _not_ like it.”

From this distance, Regis can’t sense anything, though clearly the animals and Ameer can. “Is there a monster?”

“No…” The illusion frowns as Ameer’s ears swivel, his head tilting back and forth confusedly. “I…Hm. It is very faint. A ghost, maybe?”

“Oh, shit! Let’s go, then!” Zoltan quickly hurries forwards, as does Witold. When they see Regis standing still, looking down the tunnel, they sigh.

“Regis, no. Leave the creepy ghost tunnel alone.” Zoltan insists.

“I’ll be but a moment.”

“No.” Witold says firmly. “First you run off after a bear with no regard for your own safety, now you want to go and see a ghost after falling down a big hole?”

“I might find something of importance.” Regis counters calmly.

With a troubled glare, Witold purses his lips, frowning. Eventually, he sighs. “You are, without a doubt, the most difficult person I’ve ever escorted, you know.” He tells Regis. “I’ve got my work cut out for me, trying to keep you alive.”

“Honestly, there’s no need to worry.” Regis resists smiling, quickly glossing over that amusing irony. “And I apologise deeply. I won’t be long.”

Witold waves his hand. “Fine. But be quick. I don’t want to add a ghost to the list of things we’ve fought today.”

“Thank you. Ameer, are you coming?”

Not unsurprisingly, Ameer jumps out of Regis’s arms as his illusion shakes his head. “No thank you. I will be too on edge, not much help.”

Likewise, Tatanu takes off from Regis’s shoulder and settles on a fallen rock. He begins digging his beak through the dirt and debris, looking for bugs. _I hungry! I hunt!_ He explains, but Regis has a strong feeling he’s simply afraid to go into the tunnel and doesn’t want to admit it.

“Ah, fuck it. I’ll go with you.” Zoltan volunteers. “But if a ghost kills me, I’ll be pissed.”

“You two stay out here.” Regis turns to Witold and Ameer. “Should anything happen, call us.”

As they walk down the tunnel, which is covered in more eerie paintings, Zoltan lowers his voice.

“So, Regis, can you _fight_ ghosts?”

“I’ve never tried.” Regis admits. “And somehow I don’t think my claws would have any effect.”

“Wonderful…” Zoltan grumbles, eyes scanning the paintings nervously. “And my axe won’t do shit. Well, let’s get this over with.”

The further they walk down the tunnel, the colder it becomes. A chill runs down Regis’s spine, and an unpleasant prickling sensation runs across the back of his neck. He understands Ameer and Juru’s reluctance to come here, now.

Gradually, the tunnel widens out. Ahead of them is another door – this one unlocked, though, as Zoltan is able to push it open with ease.

Inside, Regis’s eyes adjust to a considerably brighter room. Cracks and holes in the ceiling caused by roots and plants have allowed light to filter into the area, enabling Zoltan to see more clearly. “Holy shit.” Is his response.

The walls are almost entirely empty of the drawings, apart from the far central wall. Four large paintings decorate it. Beneath them, laid out on the ground, is a large stone casket.

“Is that a coffin?” Zoltan realises. “No wonder Ameer could sense a ghost.”

Regis carefully walks forwards, his eyes focused on the drawing. The three Crones speak to a man, who is then shown again with the mother, signified by her three-lined halo. The next image, the man’s head is scrawled over with black paint. In the last image, a group of other people are bearing their weapons at the unfortunate man, who now lies on the ground.

“Let me copy this down.” He takes out a battered notebook and quickly sketches out the scene. When he finishes, he moves forwards to look into the coffin. Perhaps there’s something of note in here, too.

“Careful!” Zoltan hisses.

He doesn’t need to shift the coffin lid to see inside, though. A good two-thirds have broken away, or perhaps even eroded over time. Inside, he can see a skeleton. The skull’s structure is different to that of a human or elf. And the hands – Regis counts six fingers.

Again, he looks up at the drawings on the wall. A man in league with the Crones, against She-Who-Knows…“…He-Who-Listened?” He guesses.

As if in response, a whisper echoes across the cavern. Faint, the words completely indiscernible.

Zoltan grips his arm. “Maybe we should go.”

“It is you, isn’t it?” Regis asks, undeterred. After all, his ghost has appeared to the villagers of Velen before.

The whispers continue, like the rasping sound of the tide against the shore. Regis can’t tell what he’s saying. His tone sounds…urgent, though.

Regis peers into the coffin again, examining the skeleton closely. He doesn’t dare touch it. The closer he looks, though, he spots an odd detail.

“Zoltan, look at his ribs.” He points to them. One is clearly broken, and several have been notched. “The damage – this looks man-made, wouldn’t you say?”

Reluctantly, Zoltan peers into the coffin. “…You’re right. Looks like spear wounds. A blow like that’s enough to bump a poor fellow off.”

“Hm.” Again, the voice whispers indistinctively at their conversation. Regis stares at the paintings. Most of the scenes seem to match up with what Yennefer told him, but he doesn’t understand what the last scene is meant to be saying. The people holding their weapons over the body – did that cause the injuries? But why? That doesn’t make any sense. “What are we missing?”

He looks around the room and raises his voice. “You appeared to the villagers. What did you tell them?”

Instantly, the voice begins to whisper – then speak, then shout, his words incomprehensible and alien. His anger echoes across the room, shifting dust, making cobwebs shiver. Pebbles and chunks of roots fall from the ceiling, showering them with dirt. The entire room feels to be shaking, and the ground beneath him vibrates.

“I’m sorry.” Regis backtracks immediately. “I meant no offence.”

Still the voice rages. Inside the coffin, movement catches Regis’s attention. One of the hands has moved, revealing the handle of a…dagger. Yes, a dagger, clutched to his chest.

Without thinking, Regis reaches into the coffin and pulls it out of the skeleton’s grasp.

Instantly, the voice stops. Its silence is almost as unnerving as its shouts.

“…Hello?” Regis calls again. This time, he gets no response. “…Somehow, I think we’ve outstayed out welcome.”

“You don’t say.” Zoltan begins backing away from the room. “Let’s go.”

This time, Regis doesn’t argue. Glancing back over at the paintings one last time, he follows Zoltan out of the room. The ghost doesn’t speak again.

Back down the corridor, Regis feels the strange prickling sensation down his neck subside. He can’t help but sigh in relief.

“Gotta admit, I was expecting a fight.” Zoltan sheathes his axe. “So, that was the ghost what appeared to the villagers?”

“I strongly believe so, yes. He-Who-Listened.”

“Huh. Guess he wasn’t in much of a talkative mood today. Maybe he was feelin’ shy.”

“Yes.” Regis frowns. Something feels off in the back of his mind, but he isn’t sure what. Part of him wishes to go back and investigate further. However, he knows that would be incredibly foolish. The ghost clearly didn’t care for Regis’s brief interrogation, and he should act with the utmost caution around an emissary of the Crone.

Up ahead, Regis can see Witold and the illusory Ameer kneeling on the ground. Next to them, Juru lies with her head in her paws, whining intermittently and anxiously. The real Ameer sits facing Witold, sitting patiently. Witold has his hand reached out towards him, slowing moving closer, as if to stroke him. At the last second, he retracts his hand once more.

“What is it?” The illusion of Ameer watches him intently.

“Sorry. It’s just…” Witold looks between the two of them. “A little strange.”

Ameer looks away. “You are afraid, then? Or it makes you uncomfortable?”

“What? No, not at all.” Witold quickly clarifies. “I mean, don’t _you_ find it odd? I don’t think I’d like it if people suddenly started treating me like an animal, even if I looked like one. It’d annoy me, I’m sure. So the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable.”

Ameer’s illusion glances back at him, eyes wide with confusion. “…Oh.” He falls silent, face twisted in troubled perplexity.

“…Everything all right?” Witold asks cautiously.

Ameer shakes himself. “Yes, yes. It is fine.” He smiles. “I appreciate your concern, but I do not mind you touching me in this form. And I will not bite.”

“You’re sure?”

Ameer smiles. “Yes, I promise.”

Carefully, Witold tries again. This time, his hand connects with Ameer’s head. Ameer allows him to run his hand across the length his body, feeling the fur beneath his fingers.

“Huh.” A smile appears on his face. “Soft.” Witold strokes under his chin and then behind his ears. Ameer’s tail thumps, and he chirps appreciatively.

When Witold glances up and sees Regis and Zoltan approaching, he quickly stands up, looking sheepish. “You’re back. Everything all right? What’d you find?”

“A coffin and a ghost.” Zoltan tells him. “The ghost wasn’t all too happy to see us, either.”

“I take it that’s our cue to start moving.” Witold pauses, and frowns when he sees the knife in Regis’s hands. “Where’d that come from?”

Regis holds it aloft. The handle appears to be made from polished bone and worn leather, the blade a thin sheet of slate that still looks impressively sharp. “From the coffin.”

Witold raises an eye brow. “Got to say, I didn’t take you for a grave robber.”

“Well…it seemed like the right thing to do.” A poor translation and excuse for his vampiric intuition.

However, Witold just shrugs and brushes over it regardless. “Come on. Don’t think we have far to go.”

“Yes, let’s.” Regis lifts up Ameer again. “I think I speak for all of us when I say these tunnels are getting rather dreary.”

At long last, the tunnels come to an end. Juru bursts out into the open air like a silver arrow, running gleefully around in circles. Tatanu, too, caws happily at being outside. Neither of them were fond of the tunnels, it seems.

“Thank the gods for that.” Zoltan takes a deep breath of air. “Regis, don’t ever run off like that again.”

“I’ll try not to make a habit out of it.” Regis looks down at Ameer, curled up in his arms again. “Would you like to turn back?”

Ameer glances up at the treeline. Among the branches, three crows watch them once more. “…No. Somewhere else.” The illusion speaks. “The undergrowth is too thick here. Anything could jump out at us.”

However, it’s nigh impossible to find some peace. Wherever they go, birds are waiting in the autumnal trees - in which the dying orange and brown leaves look particularly unhealthy and wilted, some of them even bleached white. More evidence of the insidiously spreading blight. Among the diseased branches, all manner of birds watch their progress. Crows, magpies, jackdaws, even blackbirds. On one occasion, an owl flies around them, staring with orange glassy eyes. Ameer hisses loudly at it, and Witold – fearing those claws that can pluck rabbits from the ground with ease – throws a stone at it. The owl stops circling them, but follows them nonetheless, perching from tree to tree. A deer and her fawn cross their path, though these do not have vacant eyes. They look scared, freezing when they see the travelling group and Juru. Witold ushers them on.

“Go on. River’s not far.” He says quietly. They skitter away, the fawn following on wobbly legs. Regis hopes they make it out of Crookback Bog.

For all the animals they don’t see, Regis is certain there are many more hidden from them. They see traces here and there – broken twigs, hair on branches, disturbed foliage. At one point, Juru’s hackles raise, and she backs away from a forest path, whining loudly. Witold notices paw prints in the mud – wolves. They hastily change direction.

Regis is beginning to wonder if they’ll have to return all the way to the village when, at last, they stumble across another clearing.

Unlike the previous clearing where they laid the trap, this one is manmade. Trees have been felled here, leaving only the stumps behind. A woodpile has been constructed underneath a small shelter, but it’s clearly been a long time since it was last used. Vines have climbed up, choking the wooden beams, and moss lines the cut timber.

“This’ll do.” Witold announces, slumming the bag on the ground. “No trees means no birds.”

“I believe it runs deeper than that, my friend.” Regis looks across the clearing. “Yennefer’s daughter told us that the Crones take their powers from the land itself. The swamp, the forests, the river. But this area was destroyed by a human hand.”

“Ah. No trees, no powers.” Zoltan surmises, sitting down on a tree stump. “A bear could still come charging in here, but it’ll be a temporary reprieve.”

Jumping out of Regis’s arms, Ameer trots over to a tree stump, sitting on top. The illusion joins him, turning to Witold. “May I have my clothes?”

Witold obliges – though not before first trying to give them to the illusion. When he realises his mistake, he carefully places them down in front of the tree stump with a sheepish smile. Regis blinks, and suddenly both the illusion and the fox are gone.

The real Ameer, in his elf form, has joined them. He is also entirely naked. Save for the medallion, of course, which doesn’t do much to cover him. He’s far lither and leaner than Regis expected him to be. Although elves are stereotyped for their elegant bodies, as immortalised by various human artists through statues and paintings of the nude variety, Ameer has proven himself time and again to be a particularly strong individual. Yet his body and posture hides this perfectly – his arms are gently toned, but not nearly as much as someone like a witcher or even Witold himself, people who would struggle to throw around a rabid wolf with such casualness. Though, really, Regis shouldn’t be surprised. Not just because aguaras thrive off surprise and trickery, but because he himself hides similar strength in his elderly body.

“Thank you.” Ameer shows no awkwardness – if anything, he looks confused at the reactions of surprise around him. His nonchalance, Regis assumes, is part of being an aguara. This is entirely normal to him.

Witold’s reaction is very different. He stares at Ameer for a moment before quickly turning around. “Oh!” He shields his eyes with his hand for good measure. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

At Witold’s awkwardness, Ameer’s indifference falters. His body tenses and he moves his arms as if to cover himself, hesitates, then places his hands on his hips to force a look of casualness and disguise his sudden self-consciousness. Forcing a laugh, he waves his hand. “Do not worry about it. I could not keep my clothes in that form, could I? It is only natural.” Despite these words, he quickly grabs his clothes and starts pulling them on. Perhaps, Regis notes with amusement, he is regretting exposing himself in front of a man whom he has recently kissed.

“It is so cold!” He adds. True, he is shivering violently, but Regis wonders if it’s another excuse – or a convenience at least. “I am used to doing this in Ofier, not in a miserable swamp.” He gets changed in record speed, again something Regis assumes is due to being a vulpess and interchanging between forms so frequently in his life.

“Thank you for carrying me.” Ameer sits down, pulling on his boots. “I can run fast in that form, but long distances are tiring – my legs are small, after all.”

“It’s no problem. Besides, it was safer that way.” Regis points out. "Otherwise any number of animals could have attacked you easily."

"That is true. Owing to my smallness, I suppose." Ameer admits. 

As he pulls on his other boot, Zoltan punches him playfully on the shoulder. “Nothin’ small about you in this form, eh, Ameer?” He says with a grin.

Ameer smirks mischeviously. “Why, thank you.”

“Now, now, let’s refrain from being crass.” Regis interrupts them. “There are more important matters to discuss. Largely, the fact you were successful, Ameer. You tricked the Crone.”

“What made her realise?” Witold asks, finally turning back around, his composure regained.

“She must have figured it out when she saw that we were just watching. Neither running away, nor trying to defend the man.” Ameer explains. “We should have been more careful.”

“So she’s smart.” Witold surmises. “Tricks and illusions work, but she can figure it out if we’re clumsy. Why did she attack us in the first place? I’ve been roaming around the swamps for a while now, and that’s never happened to me so far.”

Regis thinks about this. “…Ameer tried to interfere with her powers, her thrall. I think this was a retaliation for that disobedience. But at least we know now that she can indeed be tricked. Isn’t that right, Ameer?”

Ameer scratches the back of his neck as he sits down on a fallen tree that was never moved. “Yes. But I am afraid illusions will be of no use to you at the orphanage.”

Regis frowns. “What? But, your illusions worked.”

“Yes, they worked. The Crone is not immune to my powers. She can be tricked by my illusions.” His hand runs across the moss that grows along the grain, fingertips brushing over the stems. “She is smart, she may figure out that they are not real, but she can be tricked. The problem is, I will not be accompanying you into Crookback Bog.”

“And? You were planning on giving us a talisman, or teaching Yennefer a spell.” Regis reminds him.

“Tricking the Crone in that clearing was no easy feat. Remember, illusions are not about conjuring what does not exist. Witold, come here. Hold out your hand.”

Witold obliges, holding out his hand. Suddenly, a small chick appears in his calloused palm.

“Huh.” A smile appears on his face.

“Tell me. What is in front of you?” Ameer asks, watching him with intent green eyes.

“Uh…it’s a chick.”

“Describe it.”

“It’s…yellow. And fluffy.”

“You feel it, then?”

“Yeah. It’s tickling my palm.”

Carefully, Ameer passes his hand over Witold’s. When he removes it, the chick has vanished.

“I have explained this once before, but I will explain it again. I am not conjuring something out of nothing. I am not creating images out of magic.” He gently touches Witold’s forehead with his finger. “I am changing your senses. I am telling your mind that there is a yellow chick in your palm. I am telling your mind that it is tickling your palm with its feathers. I am telling your mind how it looks, how it moves, sounds, smells, feels. To conjure an illusion out of magical particles is a cheap trick, one that mages with weak illusory training may rely on. But these are limited in function, and will disappear easily. A true master knows how to trick their opponent’s mind itself. That is far harder to discern from reality.

“The difficulty of casting illusions depends on the situation. Tricking your mind into thinking something is there, for example, is much easier than pretending something is not there. Especially if that something is deliberately trying to touch or interact with you. It also depends on the creature or person – their age, their intelligence, their state of mind. Some beings are easier to trick than others. Animals are the easiest. Humans, elves and dwarves are harder. But that Crone?” He shakes his head. “That was the hardest illusion I have ever made in my life.”

“It seemed simple enough. Just an old man, right?” Zoltan asks.

“Not because of the illusion itself. But her mind…It was unlike anything I have ever encountered before. Like…Like thick mud, or tar. I struggled – and I was not tricking her directly. While possessing the bear, sharing a lesser creature’s mind, I think she was more susceptible to my illusions, and even that was very difficult. If I were to give you a simple talisman, to try and trick her _directly_ , at her full power, I have no doubt it would not be strong enough to work. You do not have the skills I do, after all. The talisman will not be able to match my power, which was barely strong enough to trick her. And I doubt I would be able to teach Yennefer quickly enough, either, when she is not a mage who specialises in illusions.”

“But you can’t come with us, it’s far too dangerous. Is there really no way you can make a talisman that will work?” Regis asks, growing increasingly concerned.

“To make a talisman strong enough to trick her without my presence, it would easily take months.” Ameer shakes his head. “I am sorry, Regis. This will not work. We will have to figure out another way. For now, let us return to the village. I should discuss this with Yennefer.”

“I second that.” Witold looks around the forest troubledly, eyes flickering between the trees. “We should get out of this forest for now.”

Zoltan sees his concerned face. “Do you know where we are?”

“I think I can retrace our steps back to the village.”

“…But you do not know where we are?” Ameer catches his attempt at evading the question.

“I’ve never been here before.” Witold admits. “Don’t recognise it at all.”

Instantly, Regis feels a wave of guilt. That’s his fault, for running off after the bear.

“Don’t worry.” Witold notices his expression, and pats Juru’s flank. “I can get us back, especially if Juru’s helping. But no more running off, or we might never get out.”

“No more running off. You have my word.”

Regis keeps to that promise. As Witold and Juru lead the way, he makes sure to follow them closely.

But the forest isn’t finished with them yet.

This time, it’s Witold who spots the oddity. Though the trees here are wilder and more ominous than most, it seems they aren’t the only ones who have tread this path before.

On the bark of a sycamore, a symbol has been painted with red ochre. Two curves, the one on the inside slightly smaller than the outer. Some crudely drawn ear, perhaps? When Witold sees it, he stops in his tracks, staring at it thoughtfully.

“What’s that?” Zoltan says, his voice immediately suspicious. “Another burial site?”

“No, no.” Witold places his hand on the symbol. “Most of the people here don’t have maps, and there are certain areas they don’t like outsiders seeing – including me. So, to stop them getting lost, they paint these symbols on the trees.”

“Oh, maybe this’ll show us the way back to the village then!” Zoltan sounds relieved.

“…Maybe.” Witold sounds hesitant. “…Well, it definitely won’t lead us into a monster’s nest, we can be sure of that. Suppose there’s no harm in checking.”

However, the red ochre symbols do not lead them back to the village.

Instead, it leads them to a shrine.

A wooden statue has been built on a pedestal, covered by a shelter. A woman stands with her arms piously outstretched, kindly beckoning them. A hood conceals her face. Flowers have been carved at her base, growing towards her, as if her very presence has caused them to bloom. Regis assumes this is meant to be one of the Crones in their deceptive, polymorphic state. Next to her is a man. Again, a hood covers most of his face, and again he opts that same position. He-Who-Listened, perhaps.

This isn’t the first statue they’ve seen in Velen – there was one in Greyrocks before, of Weavess. But this one is different. To start with, it looks new. He can smell the faint scent of varnish and sap along the grain. No moss or ivy has taken hold here yet. No bugs have tried to find a home in the wood. The carved ridges still look sharp, not yet weathered by wind and rain.

The man is a new addition, too. The statue in Greyrocks showed Weavess only. No images of He-Who-Listened, at least none that Regis saw.

The most obvious difference, though, is the most unnerving.

On both figures, a mark has been carved into their sternums. Regis instantly recognises the crooked three-way spiral of the Crone.

“This most certainly is not the way we came.” Regis avoids looking too long at the statues. The sight of the spiral always unnerves him.

Frowning, Ameer holds up one hand. A green flame bursts to life in his palm. “Should we get rid of this?”

“No!”

A panicked voice. Sharp and frantic. A woman’s voice.

Regis looks around. That clearly wasn’t someone from their group. Who was that?

He turns in the direction of the shout. A low hanging branch and brambles provide good cover. The sound of the wind through the leaves mask her breathing. The stench of rotten leaves, mud, swampy ground, and plant sap have prevented Regis from smelling her. And, most importantly, any feeling of being watched he contributed to the vacant-eyed ravens.

“Who’s there?” Witold steps forwards. His voice sounds pleasant, amicable, but Regis notices his hand hovering over his sabre. They’ve been followed, after all.

No response. No movement.

“We won’t hurt you.” Regis calls out.

After a moment of hesitation, the bushes part. And not one, but two figures step out.

Two she elves walk forwards. One, who looks older, has tied her blonde hair into two plaits that hang by her shoulders. There are heavy bags under her eyes, which are a bright mossy green. Her lips are cracked with dehydration, and Regis can detect the scent of blood on her person. The other has black hair, tied up in a ponytail. She’s painted green marks on her face for camouflage. Her eyes look blue – except one has been hit, causing a black bruise to swell around it.

Both, however, are armed with bows and arrows that they aim towards the group. And both have orange squirrel tails tied to their belts.

“That wolf yours?” The older elf asks immediately, looking nervously at Juru. She’s the one who told them not to touch the statue, from the sound of her voice.

“She’s friendly. She won’t attack unless you try to hurt us.” Regis explains calmly.

“And the raven?” She glances at Tatanu, perched on Regis’s shoulder.

“He’s friendly, too. As are we, I should add.”

“…Put your weapons on the ground.” The older she elf commands. Her voice sounds tired, empty.

Witold holds up his hands. The rest quickly follow suit. “We’re not looking to fight. We’ve no complaint with elves.” He says calmly. “Or any of the Elder Races, in fact, if that weren’t clear from my companions here.”

“On the ground.” The younger elf insists. Her voice has far more enthusiasm.

“Fine. We will do as you say.” Ameer speaks up, flashing a glance towards Regis and Witold: _keep quiet, and do as I say._ Carefully, Witold unsheathes his sword and drops it onto the ground. Zoltan does the same with his axe; Ameer the same with his knife.

The younger elf gathers the weapons up while the older elf keeps her aim focused on them. Her gaze falls on Ameer, who looks back calmly. Green eyes watching green eyes.

“What’s your name?” She speaks.

“Ameer.”

“Níl tú timpeall anseo.”

“Ceart. Níl muid.”

“Cén fáth a bhfuil tú leis na dh’oine seo?”

“Is cairde liom iad.” He glances down at her belt, where the squirrel tail hangs. “Is tú Scoia’tael. Ach níl muid anseo chun tú a ghortú.”

“What are you doing here, then?” She switches back to Common.

“A bear killed three children in the village. So we killed it. But we got lost.” Ameer explains. “We were travelling back to the village when we saw this statue. You told me not to burn it. Why?”

Her face tightens. The bow does not lower. “You’re with the village?” She asks accusingly.

“Not _with_ them. Just staying there temporarily. We will be moving on soon enough.”

Frowning, she takes a step back, turning to her younger companion. They whisper to each other in Elder Speech. Ameer listens intently.

“You are worried we will inform the village of your presence here if you let us go?” He speaks up.

The younger elf looks over sharply at him. “Shut up. Stop listening!”

“If myself and my friend,” Zoltan speaks up, pointing a thumb at Ameer, “were to tell these villagers about you, how do you think they’d react to _us_? Do you think they’ll thank us? Or will they assume we're also part of the Scoia’tael, or spies, or leading them into an ambush? Even if we wanted to tell them, it wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. I’ve almost been hung for Scoia’tael connections before. Me of all people would never be so stupid.”

The older elf bites her lip. She looks uncertain. “…Why’d you want to burn the statue?”

“It belongs to the Crone of Crookback Bog.” Regis now speaks up. Ameer and Zoltan flash him a warning glance, but he continues anyway. “Let’s say we’re not exactly fond of each other.”

The older elf’s gaze becomes intense. “Oh? How so?”

“She tried to drown Ameer. And she attacked us with a bear. And judging from your expression, you’ve had your own negative experiences with her as well, haven’t you?”

He’s right. Her gaze averts, and she shifts slightly. A haunted look lingers in her eyes.

“What are your names?” Regis asks.

“…Lynn.” The blonde elf speaks at last. “This is Dima.”

“Lynn, Dima, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.” Regis smiles, still keeping his hands up in surrender. “The dwarf is Zoltan, the fellow dh'oine is Witold. And it seems we all have a common enemy.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Lynn mutters.

“Why did you tell us not to burn the statue? What were you doing out here? And what do you know about the Crone?”

“…That’s a long story.” She lowers her bow – not completely, only slightly – and Regis sees that her shoulder has been bandaged.

“Are you hurt, my dear?” He asks.

“This? This is barely anything. Got two back at camp who are faring much, much worse.” She replies bitterly.

“Well, myself and Ameer are well-versed in the medical profession. Why don’t we see if we can’t help?”

Lynn frowns. Again, she turns to Dima and begins whispering heatedly.

“They are worried it might be a trap.” Ameer translates quietly. “Dima thinks they should refuse, but Lynn is worried about her fallen companions.”

At last, Lynn turns back. “We’ll take you to our camp. But you’re going blindfolded. And the wolf…” She hesitates. “And we’ll leash the wolf.

“If that’s what will make you most comfortable, then fine.” Regis says evenly. Thankfully, the others all have the sense to keep quiet and not protest. Though only Witold looks nervous. Zoltan has dealt with Scoia’tael before, and Regis has no doubt that the Ameer standing there isn’t really Ameer, while the real one has probably taken a few safe steps backwards, hidden by an illusion. As for Regis, he doesn’t fear the arrows pointed at them. If worse comes to worst, he can protect the others by using his own immortal body as a shield.

And regardless, he genuinely doesn’t believe they’ll be shot, or that they’re walking into a trap. Lynn looks suspicious of them, yes, but she also looks tired and desperate. Regis has offered aid in this hostile region; she seems too pragmatic to deny his help.

Lynn keeps her arrow on them as Dima approaches. One by one, she ties their hands behind their backs, then blindfolds them. Regis quickly glances at Ameer. If that truly is an illusion, then they won’t be entirely unaware of where they’re going.

When Dima approaches to blindfolds him, Tatanu cocks his head. _Elf not friend? Elf bad? I protect vampire friend?_

_No, don’t attack her. It’s all right._ Regis reassures him. Fortunately, Tatanu heeds Regis’s advice and doesn’t mob Dima when she blindfolds him – the last thing Regis would want is for Tatanu to get shot.

“You’re not going to let us fall over a tree root, are you?” He asks Dima.

“You’d be no good to us if you fell on your face and knocked yourself out.” She replies curtly. “Even if it looked funny.”

“Dima.” Lynn says tiredly but firmly. “You done?”

“Done. Oh, can I lead the wolf?”

“Absolutely _not_. I’ll take it, you lead the way.”

Dima sighs. “Fine…” She sounds very young, Regis thinks. How old is she? With elves, ages are tricky – a 30 year old elf and a 130 year old elf can look the same. But Dima seems particularly young. Maybe she’s still in her teens.

“Let’s go. If you try anything, we’ll kill you.”

The walk to the Scoia’tael camp is brief, but tense. Not because of the elves who have captured them, but because of the swamp.

Regis barely has the human experience of being unable to see. Even in the darkest nights, he can see perfectly well and navigate easily. The feeling of being blinded in this way is very unusual to him. In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t mind. But the forest makes sure to unnerve him in every way it can. The wind rattles the trees even more fiercely than before. Roots seem to spring up everywhere, tripping him up despite Dima’s best efforts to help him avoid them.

Worst of all are the crows. After spending the entire time just watching silently, they are now more vocal than any other crow Regis has encountered before. He thinks there must be five of them, following the group constantly, cawing over and over and over. Being blindfolded means Regis can’t see them, and might've been able to forget about them. They want to make their presence known, no matter what.

He’s not the only one bothered by them. Tatanu huddles nervously on his shoulder. Juru begins to whine, and Regis can imagine her ears flat back, her tail between her legs.

“Oh, will they shut up!” Dima shouts towards the murder. Needless to say, they do not stop cawing.

“Do they watch you as well?” Ameer asks. “The crows?”

“Yes.” Lynn’s voice comes from behind, at the back of the group. “I thought about shooting them, cooking them in a stew.”

“But you did not?”

“Something told me it was a bad idea to kill them.”

None of them argue with her. At least they can all agree on that.

It’s a relief reaching the Scoia’tael camp. The sound of cawing has become more distant, and the rattling branches less noisy. Regis’s hands are untied, and the blindfold removed.

In front of him, he sees an abandoned house: the roof is lined with moss, with flowers sprouting in the cracks; cobwebs hang from the doorless threshold, lined with frost and dew; the walls look rotted with damp and mould, ready to fall apart at any second.

Sitting in the empty doorway is another elf – a man this time. He looks considerably worse off than Lynn and Dima; his arm is heavily bandaged, his skin tinged with grey, his brow beaded with sweat. A bow and sword are discarded at his side. At the group’s appearance, he does not get up, aim his weapons or approach his fellow Scoia’tael. He just holds his arm, breathing rapidly.

“You’re back.” His voice sounds hoarse. “Who’re these dh’oine?”

“Two of them are medics. They said they’d help.” Lynn explains quietly.

“You trust them?” He raises an eye brow.

“Not really. But they trusted us not to kill them when they were tied up and defenceless. Besides, we don’t have a lot of options, Medwyn.”

Medwyn looks down at his arm. His shoulders sag in defeat. He nods mutely.

“You said there were two injured.” Ameer remembers. “Where is the other?”

“In the house. Poisoned.” Lynn keeps her face away from them, hiding her expression. Her voice betrays a quiver of distress, though.

“What did he eat?”

“Blackberries. Hazelnuts.”

Ameer frowns. “I do not understand…I thought those were not poisonous foods. Is my knowledge of northern flora incorrect?”

“No, it’s not. They’re not poisonous. Are you certain he ate those? Not a lookalike?” Regis asks, concern growing in his stomach.

Still, Lynn doesn’t look at him. “Hard to mistake blackberries and hazelnuts. Doesn’t matter what you forage in Crookback Bog. It’s all tainted. _She’s_ tainted them with her poison.”

Regis feels a chill run down his spine. The image of blackberries and hazelnuts in his mind suddenly repulses him. He prides himself on his intricate herbal knowledge, of plants and their properties. But these simple plants, ones so simple a child could pick them out, have been tainted by the Crone. A ruthless, cruel trick. He feels personally affronted. His greatest knowledge turned slyly against him.

“…I see.” Ameer’s brow furrows in thought.

“There’s nothing we can do, is there?” Lynn asks. Her voice is thick.

“…Actually…I can try something. There is a spell I can use, one I have used against her rot before. It might work.”

Lynn turns around. There’s no hope on her face, though. Only grim certainty that this spell will fail. “It can’t hurt to try.”

Regis kneels down in front of Medwyn. “May I see?”

He shakily begins to unwind the bandage. “Hope you’re not afraid of gore.”

Regis smells the problem before he sees it. Medwyn’s arm has been ravaged by some creature, and the claw marks left behind are infested with green rot. Similar to Oskar’s wounds, though fortunately not as severe.

“The leshen got me. Alcohest didn’t do anything. Herbs didn’t do anything.” He wipes his brow. “Feel like I’m on fire.”

“Can you do anything?” Lynn asks anxiously.

“I’ve dealt with wounds like this before.” Regis examines it carefully. “Maggots won’t take to the dead flesh in this instance. The only way to save you is to remove the bad flesh.”

Such a prognosis would make most patients flinch, or turn pale in horror. But Medwyn barely bats an eye. “Do whatever you need to do. Chop my whole arm off, I don’t care. Just – make the pain go away.”

“We should get started. I have some tools in my bag.” He helps Medwyn to his feet. The elf nearly collapses into him. Pulling Medwyn’s good arm over his shoulder, Regis helps him limp into the house.

Inside, Regis can see that the house’s interior isn’t faring much better. What little furniture remains is broken and covered in dust. Lingering in the air and on the walls, Regis can detect the faintest smell of blood. Old, probably by a few years, but detectable to his keen senses all the same. It’s not all old, though. Boxes have been stacked across the room, new and filled with fresh food.

Zoltan looks at them suspiciously. “This ain’t from the supply wagon that was meant to reach Lurtch, is it?”

“So what if it is? We found it. Why wouldn’t we take it?” Dima demands.

Zoltan smiles in disbelief. “You expect me to believe that? You just found it, neat and tidy at the edge of the path?”

“Believe her or not. But it wasn’t neat and tidy.” Lynn’s expression flickers with nervousness. “We found it in the forest. There was blood everywhere. The wagon had been turned on its side. No bodies. No drivers, no escorts. We saw blood trails leading into the forest, but with the amount we found…no point following them. They were attacked by monsters, that was obvious. So we took it for ourselves. The villagers aren’t the only ones starving. Forgive my lack of compassion, but if it were the other way around, they wouldn’t hesitate to do the same. History has shown us that, time and time again.”

“Besides, they’re not good people. They don’t deserve it.” Dima chimes in. “If you knew, you wouldn’t think so kindly of them.”

“Dima.” Lynn hushes her. What does that mean? “Look, we can debate over who gets the food later. Are you going to treat him or not?”

“Of course. I’ll do as much as I can. Where is the other elf?” Regis asks.

Lynn moves over the boxes, uncovering the remains of a bed. Lying there is the final elf. A young boy, even younger than Dima. Surely he mustn’t be much older than 14. He’s tossing and turning in the bed, clutching his stomach, gasping for air, whole body shaking. His mousy brown hair is plastered to his face with sweat.

Ameer kneels down beside him, examining his vital signs with care and concern. He begins to wave his hands, summoning a pale green light on his palms. “Regis, I leave Medwyn to you. Only magic can save this child now.”

“Zoltan, you help me.” Regis decides. “Set up a blanket here for him to lie on. Witold, guard the entrance. The last thing we’ll need is the Crone sending more of her minions after us.”

“Can I have my sword back?” He asks Lynn. After a moment of hesitation, she hands over the sabre.

“Come on, Juru.” He calls to the wolf, who trots alongside him, much to the elves’ surprise. She settles herself by the porch, looking out into the forest. Nothing will be able to get close without her noticing. That makes Regis feel more at ease.

“Dima, guard with him. Take my arrows. Don’t let any of those crows get close.” Lynn passes over her quiver. “If that leshen appears, though, run. Don’t wait for us.”

“Fine.” The tone of Dima's voice suggests otherwise, though. She takes her position next to Witold, an arrow notched.

_Could you sit out there with them too? Alert me if any monsters come near._ Regis tells Tatanu, who ruffles his feathers happily.

_I guard! I good raven!_ He takes flight from Regis’s shoulder and lands on the front porch of the house, settling next to Juru. A slightly odd set of guards between the four of them, but it’ll do the trick.

Removing the bad flesh is a messy affair, just like before with Oskar. Zoltan builds a fire, assists Regis with his tools, and remains impressively calm when Regis begins excising the flesh. He doesn’t flinch at the gore or the terrible stench. Though, Regis shouldn’t be surprised. He’s had plenty of battle experience, so it won’t be his first time seeing blood or rot. Medwyn, too, is surprisingly steadfast. The procedure is undeniably painful, but he makes little noise. With a stick of wood clenched between his teeth, he holds Lynn’s hand with severe tightness, trying not to squirm in agony. And though his willpower not to move or cry out is admirably strong, the second Regis finishes the procedure – wrapping up the now-clean wound with fresh bandages – Medwyn passes out from the sheer exhaustion pain brings. Regis and Zoltan help him settle on the floor, wrapped heavily in the cleanest blanket they could find. Once he finishes with Medwyn, he quickly sterilises and stitches up Lynn’s wound, a thankfully small gash on her shoulder that has not yet succumbed to rot and is therefore far easier to treat.

By the bed, Ameer is busy with his own patient. He’s holding one hand over the elf’s face, and another over his stomach. Once more, his eyes and hands are glowing green. A strange aura has washed over the elf, reassuring to look at after the gore of the procedure. Gently, Ameer moves his hands in circular motions, chanting encouragingly. With his movements, the glow begins to spread. Agonisingly slowly, but spreading all the same. Again, Ameer circles his hands, speaking more forcefully this time. With one surge of effort, he forces the glow to spread even further. It covers the elf’s entire abdomen and head. Still moving his hands, teeth gritted, Ameer holds the glow in place. As he does, the elf stops twitching. His breathing seems to slow, become less pained. The light shines brighter, then suddenly subsides.

The light quickly extinguishes from Ameer’s eyes. Hurriedly, he sits up the elf – who promptly begins to retch. But no vomit comes out of his mouth. Only snow.

Ameer rubs his back soothingly as the elf coughs up heaps of snow, which is melting quickly in the tent. When the elf finally stops, when no more ice or flake comes from his mouth, he collapses into Ameer’s arms. Shaking from fatigue, breathing hard, but no more sickly pallor or hyperventilation. He slips quickly into an exhausted sleep.

“He will be fine. The poison has left his system.” Ameer says, looking relieved. “He will live.”

Lynn nods silently, speechless for a few minutes. She runs her hand over her face, looking tired, dazed, and overwhelmingly relieved.

“…They’re going to be ok?” She asks again.

“Yes. They’ll be ok.” Regis repeats.

Lynn sighs. This clearly wasn’t the outcome she was expecting. She was probably preparing herself to dig two graves. She leans back against the wall and slumps to the ground, running her hand over her face.

“Here.” Zoltan passes her a water skin. “You look pretty knackered.”

She hesitates, then accepts it, taking a long drink. Passing the water skin back to Zoltan, she wipes her mouth. “…You want to take the food aid back to the village? Do it. I don’t care. I don’t care anymore.”

Regis looks across the group, at the unconscious elves, at Dima and her thin body, at Lynn and her injuries.

“…There’s no need for that.” He says, and no one argues him with. “How about we cook a meal instead? We could all use some energy.”

“…Food sounds good.”

They end up cooking a stew of dried mutton from the food wagon and some of the mushrooms Regis foraged alongside the child vulpess in Greyrocks. Neither he nor his companions take a large portion – in fact, they’d have been happy not to eat at all, allow this fragmented unit to eat everything instead, but Lynn had looked at them suspiciously and refused to eat until they did. Perhaps she was worried about it being poisoned, even after they healed her fellow elves. Though, for a Scoia’tael archer, caution is rarely a bad thing.

“You’re a pretty small unit.” Zoltan remarks, glancing between them. “How many of you were there originally?”

“Ten.” Lynn replies quietly. “Us four are all that’s left.”

“What happened?”

“The leshen is what happened. You seem well-acquainted with the Crone, so I’m guessing you’ve seen or at least heard of her leshen.”

“Yes, we have seen it.” Ameer says darkly. “It tried to drown me.”

“Well, you’re lucky to be alive, then. We weren’t so fortunate. Killed three outright. Three more died of their wounds, including our leader. Medwyn would’ve followed them to the grave if you hadn’t been here. When our leader died, I took over the unit. If you can even call us a unit anymore.” She adds dryly. “We’ll be lucky to survive the winter. When I enrolled in the Scoia’tael, I thought that dh’oine would be my main worry. I never would’ve imagined that this Crone would be the one killing us all off.”

“You have many reasons to hate the Crone, clearly, so why did you stop us from burning her statue?” Regis asks. “Isn’t that all the more reason to do it?”

“If it was _you_ burning the statue, fine. Not a problem. I’ve heard the ‘heretics’ in Greyrocks have frequently done the same. But you,” she looks at Ameer, “were going to burn it. That was the problem.”

Ameer frowns. “Why?”

“We did the same. It had been raining, so all the trees were wet. No good for firewood. And we were cold. We found one of those statues – they’re covered in their shrines, so it wasn’t wet. We thought, perfect, and we used it as timber to make fire. The second the statue caught flame, the leshen arrived. Took us completely by surprise. Obliterated our unit. Killed three in one go with its roots. Our leader knew it was a fight we were going to lose, so he ordered a retreat. Then…the crows started speaking.”

Regis freezes.

“All at once. They said, ‘wretched elves. Burning my pretty statues. Think your flower whore can protect you here? No. In Velen, there is only my power. In Velen, there is only me.’ It was her. It was the Crone, I know it. She’s not really dead, no matter what people around here say.”

“I do not understand.” Ameer looks troubled. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she hates elves.” Lynn looks Ameer up and down. “You’re clearly not from around here, but you’re an elf all the same. You heard of Dana Meadbh?”

“Of course.” He says, sounding offended. “Queen of the Fields. The Eternal One. Protector of the Northern Lands. We call her Zahrat albikir. The Maiden of Flowers.”

This makes Lynn smile. “The Maiden of Flowers. I like that. Many years ago, Dana Meadbh used to roam this land of Velen. All the elves here worshipped her. This made the Crones mad with jealousy. The elves, who knew how to correctly live off the land, didn’t need the Crones. They had their own knowledge, and Dana Meadbh’s love. And that undermines the Crones’ greatest powers.”

“Their greatest powers?” Regis asks.

“The Crones need people to believe that they’ll die without their help and protection.” Lynn explains darkly. “That way, folk will do whatever they ask for. But the elves undermined their influence. So they retaliated with violence and curses.”

Hm. Truly the protectors of Velen – they attacked those who didn’t need them, Regis thinks wryly.

“Dana Meadbh tried to oppose them. But she knew that those ancient creatures outmatched her. So she told the elves to leave Velen, since the Crones’ influence couldn't reach outside the land. But as they left, out of spite, the elves burnt every statue, effigy and shrine they came across.”

Ah, the mass exodus Miss Merigold told them about last night. So this is what she meant.

“An elf burning the statue recreates that spite.” Ameer realises. “That is why she attacked you, and would have attacked me. For recreating the spite from all that time ago.”

“If you’d burnt the statue, the leshen would’ve shown up. That was the last thing that anyone needed.”

“You’re not lyin’ there.” Zoltan agrees. “Terrifying bugger, that leshen.”

Ameer touches his ankle, where the roots had grabbed him. “Very true, Zoltan.”

Regis isn’t listening, though. Something has just occurred to him.

When an elf burns something belonging to the Crone – a statue, an effigy, a shrine – the Crone directly retaliates in anger.

So if an elf were to do this at the orphanage, right where the Crone lives, then she might reveal herself and attack directly in retaliation.

Of course, bringing Ameer himself to the orphanage is out of the question. They’ve already agreed that he’ll stay in Downwarren with Shani and, later, Dandelion. It’s far too risky for him to actively goad the Crone is such a way.

But now, there’s another elf present.

In the corner, the young elf Ameer healed turns with a groan. His eyes open, and he sits up blearily. When his gaze falls on Regis and Witold, he looks startled. Moving his hands in rapid gestures, he signs something to Lynn.

“No, they’re friendly, Cian. They helped us.” She points at Ameer. “He healed you.”

Cian relaxes at this. He looks at Ameer and smiles, then signs something.

“He says thank you.” Dima translates. “For curing him of the poison.”

Ameer smiles. “I am glad I was able to help you.”

“I thought I was a goner.” Dima translates. “I’ll never pick berries again.”

Ameer hesitates. “Are you unable to hear me?”

Cian’s hands don’t move. His face has gone taut. Lynn answers for him.

“When he was eight years old, he and his family got caught in a pogrom. He lost everyone. And his tongue. I suppose the humans got tired of rounding off our ears, went for a different target.”

A tense silence falls over them. It is Cian who decides to break the heavy atmosphere, though. He points at Ameer’s bow, and signs.

“He wants to have a look at it.” Dima translates.

Ameer nods, and hands it over. Cian runs his hands up and down the wood, marvelling at the sturdy make.

“He wants to know how you got a bow from the Far North.” Dima translates.

“A shop in Novigrad. You know your bows well.” Ameer commends him.

“Yeah, he’s a real good one with weapons.” Dima nudges him playfully. “Give him a good solid branch, he’ll make you a beautiful bow. But give him a charred piece of wood, and he’ll still make something that can kill an armoured soldier.”

Cian shrugs humbly. He’s very young, Regis thinks. Must be in his early teens. Dima doesn’t look much older. Only Lynn and Medwyn seem to be true adults in this Scoia’tael band.

“Here. Eat up.” Lynn fills a bowl with stew and passes it to him. “You need your strength back. Eat it all, ok? And don’t go off picking berries again, all right?”

He gives her a thumbs up. She sighs, but gives him a quick hug. Regis gets the sense that she’s more than just the leader; that she’s adopted a maternal role for her two young Scoia’tael companions.

Which makes Regis feel even more guilty for the plan that’s forming in his mind.

Aside from the scratch on her shoulder, Lynn seems relatively uninjured. As a Scoia’tael fighter, she’ll certainly be capable in combat. Most importantly, she’s an elf. If she were to burn something belonging to the Crone in the orphanage, that might goad Weavess into revealing herself.

But how can he ask a stranger to do such a dangerous task? How can he ask her to accompany them to the most perilous part of Velen? To goad such a powerful and malicious creature, to no benefit of her own or her unit?

And her unit is comprised of injured and young elves. How can he ask her to abandon them for a quest that has nothing to do with her?

But…this is the only idea he’s come up with so far. Ameer’s plan to give them an illusory talisman has been quashed. How else can they find the Crone?

He remains quiet and thoughtful, mentally wrestling with himself, trying to justify this decision and wondering how he could even ask the question. Ameer, Witold and Juru, unaware of Regis’s inner turmoil, are entertaining the two young elves. The elves are staring with wide eyes at the wolf, who sits patiently – no doubt Ameer has told her not to be jumping up on them. Cian reaches out towards Juru, but changes his mind at the last second.

“Do not be afraid.” Ameer smiles. “She will not bite.”

Cian signs something nervously. “He doesn’t want his hand bitten off.” Dima translates.

“She won’t. Look.” Witold strokes her head. “If she doesn’t bite an idiot like me, she definitely won’t bite you.”

In a moment of courage, Dima puts her hand forwards and places it on Juru’s head. When the wolf doesn’t bite, her face lights up in a grin.

“Come on, Cian.” She grabs his hand and places it on Juru’s flank. “You were dying earlier, and now you’re stroking a wolf. That’s one hell of a change, right?”

Cian begins to smile. He signs something again – obviously private, for Dima doesn’t translate.

“Your sign language – I am not familiar with it. Could you teach me some?” Ameer asks. “I like learning new languages.”

Cian looks pleased at this, nodding enthusiastically. His excited expression makes him look so young. A child this age should be at school, or at the very least whatever passes for education in remote rural areas.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Lynn’s voice catches his attention. “He’s too young to be fighting in the Scoia’tael.”

She’s sitting in front of the fire, staring into the flames with heavy eyes. There’s a shadow in them. Death, Regis realises. There’s death in her eyes. The looming shadow of death, ominous and inescapable, hangs over her, casts shadows in her eyes. Medwyn is fast asleep next to her, his face not as pale as it was before.

“True.” Regis admits. “But I’m not so naïve that I’m surprised, either.”

She nods solemnly. “I was pretty young myself when I enrolled. Part of the Brokilon unit.”

“Brokilon unit?” He hesitates. “Have you heard of a human archer called Milva – Maria Barring?”

Lynn grins. “Course I have. Sor’cha. Aen Woedbeanna. Brokilon legend. I saw her shooting once, best aim I’ve ever seen. Makes mine look shoddy in comparison. Do you know her, then?”

Regis smiles. His heart aches. “Very well, in fact. We were good friends.”

“Shame what happened to her. I cried when I heard, to be honest.”

“Yes.” Regis swallows. “It was.”

“Were you there?” Lynn asks, studying his face.

“…Yes.”

“Who was the one who shot her?”

Regis opens his mouth – and hesitates.

The image of her bleeding out in Stygga Castle, the arrow jutting out of her abdomen, is one of the clearest memories Regis has, and ever will have. The sound of her last, dying words – I love you, da – is something he will never forget.

And yet, the name of the man who fatally shot her…Regis has no idea. The man who killed one of his closest friends and tore Regis apart with grief is entirely anonymous to Regis. He can barely even remember what the man looked like.

The distress at this realisation must show on his face; Lynn pats him on the arm with a sympathetically knowing expression.

“When it’s your friend – someone who means the whole world to you, the idea that you don’t even know their killer’s name seems impossible. It was like that for me, at first. I thought I’d have the name of every whoreson who hurt my comrades and friends. That I could pin my anger on some specific person, fantasise about revenge, thinking of all the ways I could kill them. But most of the time, I never learnt their names. Often, I’d never even see their faces. Just some other northern soldier taking away someone dear to me. They all blur into one. Interchangeable, you know?” She smiles bitterly. “Our war, our cause, is the most personal one in the land. Fighting for our culture, our traditions, our right to _live_. But it’s still war. And one of the first things I learnt about war is that it’s impersonal. Horribly, horribly impersonal. No matter where you are – Brokilon, Velen, Nilfgaard, wherever.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Though it doesn’t make Regis feel much better.

“That reminds me,” Zoltan unsubtly moves on the topic, “if you’re part of the Brokilon unit, what the hell are you doing in Velen?”

“If you’re friends with Milva, then I’m guessing you know about how the original Brokilon unit got decimated. I was fortunate enough to have been away on a scouting mission when it happened, or else I’d be dead, too. They tried to rebuild, but most of us remaining elves got sent to different units. I was put in the Redanian unit, along with Medwyn. Ending up in Velen wasn’t deliberate, though. We were travelling to Dol Blathanna.”

“To Dol Blathanna? So you’ve heard about the recall?” Zoltan asks.

“Of course. We all have.” She hesitates. “You look surprised.”

“I’ve known many Scoia’tael in my life. Never imagined any of them giving up. Dol Blathanna is a pretty place, fertile too, but it’s small compared to the other kingdoms in the north. Iorveth was always complaining about it.”

Lynn’s eyes widen. “You know Iorveth?”

“Aye. Fought for Vergen together.”

Lynn sighs. “Vergen…that was a bitter blow. And it’s why I’m certain Iorveth will never trust Emhyr, not after the Nilfgaardians took over Vergen.”

“Not surprised. Never imagined he’d ever, ever give up the cause.”

“Iorveth doesn’t flinch from death.” Lynn stares into the flames. “He’ll never give up. And I respect him for that, I do. But…”

“But?” Regis encourages her to continue.

“…They tell you to fight for Aelirenn. The White Rose. They say it would be honourable to die fighting for her, and for our cause. It might be an unwinnable battle, but we’ll die with pride and glory and honour. It’ll be a noble sacrifice. That’s what they tell us.”

For a moment, she falls silent. Glances over at the two young elves.

“…We believe it, of course. Given the choice between dying of disease or starvation shamefully, dying painfully in a pogrom, or dying for our cause…Of course we choose to fight. For some of us, there’s less choice in the matter.”

“Like Cian?”

“And Dima too. Small pox took her family. There’re plenty of kids in the Scoia’tael, especially as our numbers have been dwindling. Kids with nowhere else to go.”

Children who sign themselves up to die. To sacrifice themselves for the cause. Children with no other alternative – die now, or die later.

“The kids especially believe that propaganda. They come in thinking they’ll be making a real difference.” She shakes her head. “It fades eventually, though. If they don’t die first.”

“Forgive me, but you sound rather…sceptical for a Scoia’tael fighter.” Regis points out.

At this, Lynn smiles. “True. Call me sceptical, jaded, bitter. I don’t care. Because…I’m not like Iorveth. Death scares me. I’ve seen it plenty of times now. It’s not noble. It’s messy and painful and terrifying. When I was hiding in a ditch, my friend bleeding out in my arms, moaning and writhing in pain, while the soldiers who dealt that blow searched for us…that wasn’t noble. Or heroic. It wasn’t an honourable sacrifice. I wasn’t thinking of the White Rose. I was terrified. I wanted to go home.”

Zoltan stares into the flames. “Can’t fault you for that.”

“The only reason I stayed for so long is because I had nowhere to go. My home in Brokilon was gone. Any human up here would kill us, too, for our Scoia’tael connections if they saw us. Even the elves in the north were too afraid of being targeted or swept up in pogroms if they sheltered us.”

“But now that Dol Blathanna is letting you return…” Regis realises.

“We finally have a choice. A choice beyond dying of disease, from racist humans, or fighting for our cause. It’s a shitty choice. A small choice. And who knows, maybe Emhyr will find some way to screw us over again. But it’s a choice we’ve never had before. I don’t care if I’m betraying the cause or being selfish. I don’t care if the loyalists look down on me. I’m not as brave as Iorveth. I don’t want to die fighting anymore. I want to live. I want to have a home in a place where my neighbours won’t slaughter me. I want…I want peace. Or at least as much peace as we can get. So Dol Blathanna might be small, but it’s safe. And it’s better than nothing.”

Regis glances over at Cian and Dima. “…And it’s a chance for your younger recruits to live a normal life, too.” For children embroiled in a terrible life of violence, the opportunity to escape that is a wonderful gift. Regis should know – how many times does he wish he could turn back time and convince Angoulême to stay in Toussaint with Dandelion instead of travelling with them to Castle Stygga? To give her some semblance of security that her childhood so sorely lacked?

Lynn swallows, looking over at them. Cian is signing words, which Ameer and Witold are trying to mimic.

“So this is…hello.” Ameer attempts the sign, and Cian nods. “And this is, my name is Ameer?”

“You’ve got it.” Dima grins. “And what’s this?”

“That means shit.” Ameer answers cheerfully, much to their delight.

“And this?” Dima shows another one.

“Fucking whoreson.” Ameer and Witold both recite – Witold a second later, slightly slower in his learning.

“And what about _this_?” This time, when she signs something, Ameer and Witold look confused.

“What does that mean?” Witold asks.

Dima points at him. “Ginger bastard!”

The two elves laugh. Ameer places his hand on Witold’s shoulder. “Oh dear. Are they bullying you?” He asks with an amused smile.

“I’m ruined.” Witold says with mock sombreness. “I’ll dye my hair stark black now.”

“Like mine!” Dima runs a hand through her hair – with some difficulty, since it’s rather tangled from hiding in the bushes.

“You have lovely black hair, Dima – like mine.” Ameer cocks his head, amused. “Hm…Somehow, I think you would look a little…odd with black hair, Witold.”

“You think?” Witold asks with a smile.

“Yes. Besides, I like your hair.” He says this in a matter-of-fact way – too casually, in fact, as if to hide his shyness. “Even if that makes you a ginger bastard.” 

Smiling in an almost self-conscious way, Witold runs a hand over his head. “Oh. Thanks.”

Cian suddenly signs something, pointing at Witold head. “He wants to know about your scars.” Dima translates.

Regis watches curiously – how will he react? He’s been rather evasive about it in the past. “Oh. These?” Witold points. “I fought a basilisk with my bare hands.”

Immediately, Dima scowls. “You fought a basilisk, my arse! We’re not babies. You’d be dead if you’d try that.”

“What can I say? I’m hard to kill. And I’m strong, too.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true.”

“No it’s not. You’d be dead in an instant. I mean, I bet _I_ could beat you no problem, let alone a basilisk!”

“Oh really?” Witold raises an eye brow.

“Of course!” Dima leans her elbow on one of the boxes from the aid cart. “I’m stronger than you, I’ll prove it. Come on, arm wrestle me!”

After a moment of hesitation, Witold takes her hand. “All right, then.”

With a sharp grin, Dima begins to push her arm, while Cian claps in excitement. But the match doesn’t last long – after some feigned effort from Witold’s behalf, Dima slams his arm down with ease.

“Ah, you got me.” Witold pretends to look disappointed. “It looks like you’re even stronger than me.”

However, Dima sees through his act immediately. “You went easy on me! You lost deliberately!” She scowls, crossing her arms. “We’re not little kids, you know. Don’t patronise me.”

“Let me try.” Ameer suddenly speaks up. He looks at Witold with a calm face, and a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me arm wrestle you, Witold.”

Witold blinks in surprise. “Oh. Yeah, sure.” He places his arm on the box again.

“Do not go easy on me.” Ameer warns him. “Try your hardest.” He rests his elbow on the box, taking Witold’s hand in his own, eyes sharp and focused.

“Three…two…one…go!” Dima slices her hand down.

They begin the wrestle. At first, Witold pushes back carefully, cautiously. But when Ameer almost immediately slams his arm down onto the box, his eyes widen with alarm and he begins to push back with more strength.

“Do not go easy on me.” Ameer repeats, voice stern but amused. “Give me a challenge.”

Brow knotted in confusion, Witold begins to push back in earnest. He grits his teeth, slowly but surely inching back Ameer’s arm, bringing their hands back to the centre. His own arm is shaking with the effort, though. He tries to push again, but this time barely makes a difference.

Ameer watches him, showing none of the same strain or fatigue. He smiles instead, as if intrigued by Witold’s strength. Pleasantly surprised, amused, by his willpower and effort.

Witold inhales deeply, pushing back as hard as he can against Ameer’s arm. It doesn’t budge. Regis can see sweat beading on his brow, face tense with concentration. His arm is shaking violently, he pushes Ameer’s with agonising slowness, inch by inch –

And then his strength gives way. The muscles in his arm promptly give up, and Ameer slams his hand down onto the box.

“Wow!” Dima grabs Ameer’s hand, as if searching for some hidden device that allowed him to win with such ease. “You’re really strong! I thought for sure you were gonna lose!”

“Holy shit.” Witold shakes out his hand, panting. “You really are a _lot_ stronger than you look.”

Ameer grins, placing his hands on his hips. “Really? You saw how I handled that wolf in the clearing, and you still thought you could beat me? That is rather _arrogant_ of you, Witold.”

“Oh.” Witold fumbles, abashed. “I-I didn’t mean –”

“Teasing.” Ameer smiles fondly. “I am just teasing.”

At this, Witold relaxes. “You know, I was surprised at Mulbrydale when you broke that man’s nose. Now I’m not sure if you were holding back or not.”

A wave of confidence seems to overcome Ameer. “Well, I am full of surprises.” He winks.

At this, Witold laughs. “You certainly are.” He agrees.

“Let me try!” Dima asks, offering out her hand, which Ameer takes. Conveniently, he misses Regis’s cautioning stare at his brazenness, at the heart he wears so obviously on his sleeve. _Be careful, my friend,_ Regis thinks, _I don't want to see you getting hurt._

Of course, Lynn doesn’t notice or care about any of that. Her eyes are only on her younger Scoia’tael companions. And when she turns back, her voice is quiet. “…They’re good kids. I want them to live a life that isn’t a constant fight for survival.” Her lip twitches in a sardonic smile. “Fat lot of good I’ve been to them, though. We’re stuck in these fucking swamps, more than half our unit gone…” She closes her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. That Crone clearly wants us dead. And she isn’t letting us leave, either. When we last tried to cross the river, the leshen was there, and we had to retreat. I don’t know what to do.”

Regis swallows. The opportunity is presenting itself so perfectly. And he hates himself for it – for manipulating the feelings of this elf who just wants a better life for her younger companions.

True, her interest and Regis’s are aligned. True, their goals will be similar. But it still feels dirty. Wrong.

Geralt. This is for Geralt, Regis reminds himself. That, above all else, is paramount.

“…Lynn…We are searching for the Crone.” He says quietly. “And you need the Crone to leave you all alone. Our interest may align.”

Lynn frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We…I believe we may need your help in order to find the Crone. We –”

The sounds of Medwyn groaning makes Regis stop. Lynn turns hurriedly to him.

“What…Where…” He moans.

“We’re all right.” Lynn holds his hand. “We’re safe. Rest now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Without another word, he drifts back into exhausted sleep.

Lynn stares at him for a few minutes, her face forcefully steady, battling away some emotion. Then she stands up. “…Let’s talk outside.”

In the end, they only stand in the porch; the forests are being doused in rain. Rather than creating a fresh, earthy smell as rain in a forest normally does, though, it smells somewhat…stale. Stagnant.

“Why do you want to find the Crone?” Lynn asks.

“She knows something, about a man we’re searching for.”

Lynn raises an eye brow. “That’s it?”

“It’s more complex than that. She’s the _only_ one who might know where he’s gone. And if we can’t find this man…it would be very bad. I’ll spare you unnecessary details and leave it at that.”

Lynn frowns. “Unnecessary details? If you’re trying to track down the Crone, I’d rather have the full story.”

Regis purses his lips. He doesn’t want to unveil too many details. “The man…his name is Tye. He caused some chaos with a giant golem in Oxenfurt. We’re trying to catch him.”

“…And? What, did he kill someone you know?”

Regis swallows, trying to keep his face neutral. “What makes you say that?”

“I can’t think of many other reasons why someone would face down the Crone otherwise.” She glances back at the house. “I mean, all of you here in Velen – you wouldn’t all be here unless it was important, right?”

“Witold is just our guide.” Regis counters weakly.

“And the others?”

Regis sighs. He runs a hand over his face. “I…It’s not something I can talk freely about.”

Lynn frowns. “Politics?”

“No. More like…The situation is still very fraught. And if someone _hostile_ were to learn about it, and were to attack…Then the situation could turn from fraught to lethal. Do you understand?”

“Oh. I get it.” She nods knowingly, and looks around at the trees. “Best not to give out too many details, then, out here in the forest. The Crone has many spies.”

Regis follows her gaze around the treeline. In the branches, the crows still watch them. “You’re right there, my dear. All I can emphasise is that if we don’t find the Crone…someone very dear to me may well perish.”

Lynn nods. “I’d expect so…What do you need me for, then?”

“The Crone has been very reclusive as of late. We were searching for a way to bring her out of hiding. And the way you described the Crone’s reaction after you burnt her statue…I believe if you were to repeat that action where she lives, she may reveal herself to you.” As soon as he says it, Regis sighs heavily. “…I’m sorry. I know I sound terrible. We’re strangers, yet I’m asking you to be bait, or some sacrificial piece of meat.”

Strangely, at this Lynn laughs aloud. “A sacrificial piece of meat? That’s been my whole life in the Scoia’tael.” She hesitates. “You said our interest align. How? I don’t want to speak with the Crone.”

“But you want her gone, don’t you?” Regis asks. “She’s killed your friends, and as long as she exists, she’ll be a threat to you. And you said so yourself – she’s deliberately targeting you, trapping you in Crookback Bog.”

Lynn turns, looking him up and down, and lowers her voice. “So, what, you’re planning to kill the Crone once you’re done? Forgive me, but –”

“I know. I may be old, but I’m stronger than I look.” Regis repeats tiredly. “Besides, I’ll be with an extremely powerful sorceress. And the Crone isn’t immortal – her two sisters were felled by a magic user.”

Lynn thinks about this. Admittedly, killing the Crone is not part of the plan. But then again, it’s not an unexpected decision, either. A fight may simply be unavoidable. Considering how the Crone has acted towards them so far, there’s a very real possibility that she’ll attack them, not let them leave the orphanage alive.

So he stands by his words. He hopes Yennefer won’t mind.

“I know I’m asking a lot of you,” he continues, “and we don’t know each other. But –”

“I’ll do it.”

Regis stares at her in surprise. “You will?”

“That bitch won’t rest until we’re all dead.” She glances back towards the house. “Unless I stop her, none of them will be getting to Dol Blathanna alive. And if I die, it’ll be to give my friends a genuine, actual chance at living. Not throwing away my life for a cause we were never going to win.” She stands up. “You seem decent – and decent can be a tall ask in these parts. I’ll go with you.”

“What about your unit? You have two injured members.”

Lynn gestures to the house. “I’ll have them stay here. Gives them some shelter. And for some reason, animals and monsters don’t tend to linger around old, rotting houses like this. I think they prefer to focus their attention on fresh prey within the villages, and the house can hide them from all the Crone’s spies. Unless she directly tries to kill us again, there’ll be safe for the time being. And if they stay very quiet and still – and if the Crone is distracted by me coming to kick her ass – then hopefully the Crone won’t notice them here. When do you plan to go searching for her?”

“As soon as possible. Now we’ve discovered a way to force the Crone to reveal herself, we need to continue our journey to Crookback Bog.” He explains. “Travelling in the dark can be dangerous, so perhaps we’ll stay at Lurtch for the night and set off the next morning.”

Lynn’s face pales. “I really, really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She’s acted warily of this village before. This seems to be more than just fear of racism. “Why is that, my dear?”

Lynn shifts uncomfortably. “You’ve probably noticed they still worship the Crone, even if they think she’s dead, right? You’ve noticed how they lark on about He-Who-Listened and all that?”

“I am aware, yes. Though this doesn’t seem unusual for Velen, or so I’ve heard.”

“I wouldn’t have thought much, either. Until we found the altar.”

Regis frowns. “The altar?”

“You can go and see for yourself. Follow those weird red symbols on the trees. When you see it, you’ll know. I’ll pack my things in the meantime.”

“Pack your things?”

The voice comes from Medwyn. He’s woken up, leaning heavily against the door frame to keep him standing. His breath comes in strenuous pants, but he stares at her unwaveringly. “Lynn, what are you talking about?”

“Medwyn –”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about killing the Crone again?”

“What other choice do we have?” Lynn firmly insists.

“Lynn, you’ll die.”

“We’ve all been willing to die before. This time, it’ll be to protect ourselves.”

“Please.” Medwyn stumbles forwards and grabs her shoulder. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t…If you die, I can’t –”

“If I die, we’ll all die anyway. And I don’t want to lose _you_. Or Dima. Or Cian. This is our only chance to get out of here alive. It’s a small price to pay.”

“You dying is not a small price to pay! Where has this death wish come all of a sudden?”

“It’s not a death wish. I don’t want to die. I really, really don’t want to die. But the thought of,” she lowers her voice, “you, Dima and Cian dying is even worse. I won’t dig your graves, Medwyn. I can’t.”

“And I don’t want to dig yours!”

Lynn looks away, arms folded, not meeting his gaze, steeling her expression. Medwyn looks close to tears, grasping her shoulders imploringly.

“Let me give you some peace.” Regis says guiltily. After all, the argument he can sense is about to happen is thanks in large part to him.

The rest of the group seems relieved to leave the elves and follow Regis to the altar Lynn mentioned; no one wants to be an awkward, intrusive witness to what will be an important and emotional conversation.

“She really has agreed to come with us?” Ameer has lifted his hood to protect himself from the rain. “Even though it is so dangerous?”

“Yes. Letting the Crone live would be more dangerous for her unit, though.”

Ameer looks troubled. “But…fighting the Crone will be dangerous for you, Yennefer and Zoltan, too.”

Honestly, Regis is trying not to think about it. “I know. But together we’ll be all right.” He doesn’t sound very convincing, though.

Ameer isn’t the only one looking downcast. Zoltan has been subdued ever since that conversation with Lynn, while Witold is constantly looking around himself, on edge.

“You sure this is the right way?” He asks, hand hovering over his sword.

“I believe so, yes.”

“And we really have to go and see this altar?”

“If we are to stay any longer at Lurtch, I’d rather there be no surprises or secrets.”

“Fair enough.” He looks up at the branches, where the crows have continued in their silent surveillance. “I just don’t like travelling on unfamiliar paths, and I’ve never been here before.”

By now, the sky has begun darkening as the sun sets. They’ve been out much longer than they intended. Fortunately, the symbols on the trees are easy enough to spot, and they follow the trail of red ochre without much difficulty and without getting disorientated.

“We won’t be far from it now.” Regis reports. “We should –”

He pauses when Tatanu begins tugging at his earlobe. _Scary! Bad smell! Scary!_

Behind him, Juru has come to a halt. A growl turns into a whine, and she lies down on the ground, head between her paws. Ameer kneels down beside her, stroking her and speaking in soft, soothing tones.

“We are getting close.” He glances at Regis. “Stay close to me, in case we need to hide.”

It takes a lot of convincing to make Juru stand up and continue walking. She stays pressed up against Ameer’s leg, ears flat back. Likewise, Tatanu huddles on Regis’s shoulder, who strokes him gently to keep him calm.

Soon after, they find the altar.

There is no real clearing here, no obvious felling of trees to make room for it. Disguised by the forest itself, Regis could have easily missed it if not for Lynn’s instructions.

That, and the reactions of their animal companions. And the undeniable scent of blood.

Nestled among the trees is a wooden altar, smooth and neatly crafted. The surface is stained red with blood. Animal blood, Regis notes with only mild relief. But this isn’t some bizarre woodland butcher’s workplace.

Four statues are positioned past the altar, elevated above it. Three women – one with a hat, one with a hood and garland of ears, the last with a basket of flowers. Weavess, Whispess and Brewess respectively. The fourth statue, positioned in the middle and slightly beneath them, is He-Who-Listened.

Zoltan’s nose twitches, and he grimaces. “Please tell me that’s sheep’s blood or somethin’, and not human.” He whispers.

“You’re right, thankfully.” Regis confirms.

Zoltan sighs. “I guess that’s a comfort…still creepy as fuck, though.”

Witold steps forwards, peering at the altar. He holds his hand over his nose. “This is fresh. Recent.” He glances at the statues. “I’ve been to Lurtch a few times, but I had no idea they were participating in such active worship. Maybe we should move on from this village.”

No wonder Lynn looked so uneasy. People actively sacrificing animals to a creature bent on killing her and her friends…

The creaking of branches ensnares his attention.

There. Distant, but coming closer. Someone moving clumsily through the forest.

Ameer must hear it, too. Wordlessly, he grabs Witold’s wrist and pulls him back from the altar.

“What –”

“I hear someone coming.” Ameer breathes, stepping well back into the vegetation. “Everyone, stand by me. Get down, and stay quiet.”

No one protests. They gather around Ameer, hiding themselves among the foliage. Zoltan grabs Regis’s arm, pulling him down to whisper in his ear.

“What d’you hear?”

“…Three people approaching.” He frowns, and sniffs the air. “They’ve got something dead with them – an animal.” However, he hears no conversation; the group is walking in silence.

When the three people arrive at the altar, Regis recognises them as villagers of Lurtch. One of them is carrying a dead chicken. Odd. The village is gripped with a blight, facing starvation – but chickens mean eggs, which means precious food. At the very least, if they’ve killed the chicken, they should eat it. But instead, the villager steps forwards and places the dead chicken on the altar. Regis sees his brow is beaded with sweat. Carefully, unsheathes a knife.

One of the other villagers touches his stomach. “Do we _really_ have to? I’m hungry – that’s good meat we’re wasting.”

“Shut up.” The man wipes his brow. “I told you, I need to practice again. None of us know who’ll be called up. Now, be quiet. I need to concentrate.”

For a few moments, the three stand in silence. The man with the knife has his eyes closed, mouthing words silently to himself, as if trying to remember something.

At last, he steps forwards. He holds the knife aloft – and then eviscerates the chicken. Blood splatters across the altar. Regis winces in spite of himself.

One of the other villagers steps forwards now, grimacing. He reaches into the chicken and pulls out its heart, holding it up high above him. The last villager takes the chicken’s intestines, raising it above him as well.

“Unweave, unthread, unwind.” The villager with the heart chants.

“Wind, thread, weave.” The villager with the intestines responds.

The villager with the knife scoops his hand into the chicken’s wounds, drenching his fingers with blood. He smears it onto the blade, chanting as he does so.

“Take this gift upon your blade.”

“ _May the old magics imbue it_.” His two companions recite together, voices monotone.

“Take this knife upon the chain.”

“ _May the old magics subdue it_.”

“Restore the chain from ancient sleep.”

“ _May the old magics unearth it_.”

“Restore the chain to forests deep.”

“ _May the old magic rebirth it_.”

The two villagers place down the organs back onto the altar. The villager with the knife plunges it down into the chicken’s open cavity, then takes a staggering step backwards.

Staring sown at the bloody mess he’s created, the villager wipes the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a bloody smear on his forehead. “…Let’s do it again.” He says, taking out the knife again.

Instantly, his friends sigh in exasperation. “Come on, we’ve practiced so many times now!”

“No!” The man turns on them. “There’ll never be too many times! Any of us could be called up! And if we get this wrong, if the ritual fails, everything will’ve been for nothing!”

At this, his friends fall silent. And they don’t complain when he starts again, joining in with the chants.

“What are they doing?” Ameer breathes as they repeat the strange ritual. His face is taut in concentration – though the foliage hides them somewhat, he must be casting an illusion to conceal them just in case.

“I don’t know.” Regis whispers back. “But we should get Yennefer and Shani, and leave straight away. I don’t like this.”

Once more, the chants end. The knife is embedded in the dead chicken again. “…All right. One more time.”

“No, this is enough. It’s getting dark. Dangerous to be out.” One of his friends says firmly. “And Casmir will want us back.”

“Shit.” The man looks up through the tree line. “It's getting dark already?”

“Yeah, it is. We’ve been out here for ages. We should get back. Casmir wanted us for something.”

“What was it?”

“I’m not sure. Something to do with the foreigners.”

Regis freezes.

“The foreigners? Why?”

“Ever since that Koviri witch showed up, he’s been on edge. Who can blame him? And now she’s gone and called for backup – that black haired witch and her lot, he reckons them and the Koviri are all in cahoots. And we _cannot_ let them find out about the Ritual of Rebirth.”

“Huh. Pretty easy to guess what he wants us to do, then.”

Regis feels his entire body turning to hot, burning panic. His throat feels as if it’s closing up.

Yennefer and Shani are still in Lurtch with Triss and Kilian.

Just what exactly does Casmir want to do with them?

From the conversation he just heard, Regis has a dreadful feeling what it might be. A dreadful, terrifying feeling.

The blood on the altar drips slowly onto the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> \- You're not from around here.  
> \- Correct. We are not.  
> \- Why are you with these humans?  
> \- They are my friends. You are Scoia'tael. But we are not here to hurt you.
> 
> Also, at first I was just going to have it be that Ameer would change back and his clothes would be on - I thought him being naked would be a little tropey, and whenever Philippa polymorphs she has her clothes on (in the games at least, I can't remember about the books). But then, I remembered that in the story where Fox Mothers are introduced, the Fox Mother in the story is naked when she changes back into a human from her fox form, so I felt I had to be fair ahaha


	11. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Sorry for the wait for the new chapter!! Unfortunately I'm right in the middle of my January exam period (January is not a great month to have your birthday in ahaha) and things are going to be busy until mid February I'd estimate, so I wanted to upload this chapter so there isn't a really long wait between the chapters. I hope that's ok!!  
> I mentioned this already in chapter 8, but I just wanted to quickly mention again - I'm not a Triss hater I swear lol, in fact I feel pretty bad for her that CDPR missed out on a lot of interesting character development. I'm very interested in exploring her and Yennefer's relationship, both for her sake and for seeing how her actions would've affected Yennefer, so this isn't coming from a place of hatred!!  
> Also, there'll be book spoilers in this chapter!!  
> Thank you all for your lovely comments in the last chapter, they really make my day to read!! Hope you enjoy the next chapter!!

_"-Heard about the bed...Really prefer to sleep on the floor? Wouldn't recommend it. That stone can get awfully chilly._

_-Frankly, I prefer a chill to bedding littered with red hair._

_-Ah. So it is about Triss._

_-Yes. It's about our dear darling Triss. Geralt...I don't want to seem like a vindictive shrew, but that very bed is where you just happened to fuck a dear friend of mine. Yes, I know. You'd lost your memory. Whatever...Let us agree that I will refrain from scolding you, while you will stop mentioning that stupid bed. Agreed?_

_-Agreed.” – A conversation between Geralt and Yennefer in Kaer Morhen._

The villagers stare at Yennefer with hard, unwavering eyes.

Lurtch is busy today. Women are scrubbing dirty clothes in basins of water, probably the last decent wash before the weather gets far too cold. A group of men are sorting through bundles of vegetables and crops, those that were least affected by the blight and are still partially edible. There aren’t many of them, and when the rotten bits are chopped off, it makes the volume of edible food even scarcer. Certainly not enough to last the winter. Two hunters are skinning a few rabbits with barely any meat on them, while another salvages a net that’s been ripped into pieces by its quarry. Despite the busyness, there’s little chatter in the air, no songs being sung to pass the time, and not much urgency about them either. Instead, a blanket of melancholy seems to have settled over Lurtch, a defeated despair bordering on apathy.

But whenever Yennefer and Triss pass by them, they stop whatever task they’re doing to stare. Haunted, shadowed eyes follow their path through the village. Not too dissimilar from the eyes of those enthralled wolves she saw by the river with that leshen. But, rather than the vacant eyes of some possessed animal with no will of their own, there’s no emptiness here. Instead…a mask, perhaps. Something within those hard, blank stares unsettles Yennefer. As if some dark secret is hiding beneath the surface. Whatever discontented chatter was taking place halts whenever they pass. Like some eerie silence following a funeral procession.

Yennefer tries not to let it bother her. At first, she openly matches their gazes, staring icily back at them. But none of them flinch, or avert their gazes. They just stare unwaveringly. So instead, Yennefer opts to ignore them. After all, she has other things to focus on, to worry about. And she was already feeling immense discomfort before she noticed the villager’s stares.

For today, while the men have gone off to experiment in the forest, Yennefer is going to be testing out her own experiments at a nearby well, in an attempt to cast hydromancy and track down the Crone. Unfortunately, said well is apparently barely used now thanks to various monsters that seem to have the habit of attacking anyone who goes near it, but that’s honestly the last thing on Yennefer’s mind. Instead, the fact that this hydromancy attempt will involve Triss takes up far more of her thoughts.

Her fellow sorceress clearly hasn’t noticed Yennefer’s reluctance as they walk alongside each other through the village; she’s too focused on the unsettling stares of Lurtch’s inhabitants. After all the chaos in Novigrad with the Church of Eternal Fire, being watched so intsensely like this is probably unnerving to her. The cloak of her hood is drawn up securely, casting her face in shadow. Though, whether that’s because of her unease towards the villagers or the weather, Yennefer isn’t sure. The village is harassed by strong winds today, the blades of the windmill turning quickly and strongly, unshielded by the sturdy trees of the forest. The sun remains hidden by thick clouds, casting a dullness across the landscape. A miserable day. At least it matches her mood, Yennefer muses dryly. Somehow, a beautiful, sunny day would only make her temperament even fouler and more anxious than it already is.

Another relief is that Yennefer isn’t alone with Triss on this endeavour. They are joined by Kilian – here to give assistance and potential support while attempting hydromancy – and Shani, the latter joining them rather reluctantly. She carries a wooden bucket; there are sick children in dire need of clean water, as well as medical procedures that need sterility. Unfortunately, most attempts to retrieve water from the relatively untainted well by villagers has been thwarted by monster attacks. At least Shani will be protected by the three mages, should the unknown monster decide to appear.

From the looks of Shani’s awkward expression, Yennefer wonders if she’d have rather gone alone and risk the monster attack. She and Triss haven’t spoken much aside from polite small talk or formalities. Did they really exchange such harsh words with each other? Or do they simply remind each other of a more embarrassing time of their lives they’d rather forget? Somehow, Yennefer thinks it might be the latter – a mixture of embarrassment, regret and shame at the pettiness Shani described.

She’s grateful that Shani doesn’t say anything to heighten that awkwardness, though, especially after what they spoke about last night. In that way, it’s probably for the best that neither Ameer nor Zoltan are here. Knowing Ameer, he wouldn’t make his dislike of Triss subtle, whereas Zoltan would no doubt say something stupid in a misguided attempt to lessen the tension and only make things worse.

No. Even though Yennefer isn’t thrilled to be here, it’s better this way. Besides, there’s nothing to feel awkward about. Since she met up with Triss in her tent last night, she’s made a firm decision not to even think about all those messy, complicated feelings. After all, Triss certainly hasn’t been thinking about it. Four years is a long time to hold a grudge. So no matter how the irritating little voice in the back of Yennefer’s mind insists that yes, it still bothers her, she refuses to spend even a jot of energy thinking about the matter, and she certainly refuses to allow herself to get upset over it. There are more important things to be worrying about. Namely, the hydromancy spell they are going to attempt.

Yennefer isn’t particularly well versed in this type of magic. The last time she used it – to track down the shop keeper and murderer Filip – it took her several tries to get it right. This time, she’ll be using it to spy on a creature as old as the very land she walks on. Not only might it simply not work, but any number of things could go wrong. Triss is far more skilled at hydromancy, but even with their combined powers, there’s no telling what might happen.

“Are you sure it’s wise to leave your tent unattended?” Yennefer glances back towards it, becoming sick of the silence between them. “There are many valuables in there, and an abundance of poor people here. An irresistible temptation.”

“Don’t worry. I set up a security spell. If anyone even approaches the tent, we’ll know. Like you said, there are plenty of desperate people, and all sorts of eavesdroppers. But the tent will be safe.” Triss reassures her. Of course, Yennefer already knows about the security spell. But it’s interesting to hear Triss mention eavesdroppers. Considering the conversation she overheard last night, Triss must mean Nilfgaardian spies. Are there some in this village? Triss seems to be expecting some, at the very least. And with the blatant Koviri presence, Yennefer wouldn’t be surprised.

A sound from the forest interrupts her thoughts. From within the trees, she hears a strange, low growling from an animal or monster she doesn’t recognise. The procession stops in their tracks: Shani takes a quick step towards Yennefer, while the three mages ready their respective spells. But nothing happens. The growling stops, and no monster bursts from the trees.

“…What was that?” Shani asks as Yennefer lowers her spell.

“A threat, perhaps. Or maybe just a trick to put us on edge.” Yennefer guesses. “As for the species, I’ve no notion what that was. Did any of the villagers mention to you what monsters keep attacking them at the well?” She honestly was barely listening when Kilian mentioned it before they set off, so distracted by Triss and the strange villagers around them.

“The villagers haven’t managed to see whatever monster it is.” Kilian reports. “Any eye witness accounts are varied and contradictory. No one’s seen it, but people have heard dragon roars, children laughing, water hag cackling and bear growls.”

“Well, in moments of stress, people can misremember details, or interpret them incorrectly.” Triss says. Eye witness accounts are notoriously unreliable. “Either that, or we’re facing a monster that can change form or mimic sounds.”

Of course, Yennefer’s first thought would be a Fox Mother, but she knows the one living in Velen left recently. Besides, that’s not in their character – a Fox Mother wouldn’t risk conflict with humans over a random village well, not when they have their children to look after.

“Has anyone been killed by it?” She asks Kilian.

“Two villagers, when the attacks first started. Those who go near it now have the sense to run away if they hear noises.” He reports. “And we haven’t seen the monster ourselves, when we’ve used the well for hydromancy in the past. Sometimes it growls at us, but it hasn’t outright attacked us so far.”

“Where are the bodies from the other attacks?” Perhaps they can conduct an autopsy.

“They were never found. Not even a finger.”

“Well, we’ll just have to rely on our own knowledge as pseudo-witchers if a monster appears, I suppose.”

They continue walking, with Shani making sure to stay close to Yennefer’s side. The growling doesn’t sound again, but Yennefer cannot shake the feeling they’re being watched. Perhaps Regis’s and Ameer’s supernatural senses have been rubbing off on her in some way? Or perhaps she’s just being paranoid. Everything about this village is making her paranoid, that’s for certain. The villagers and their motives, Kovir’s presence in Velen, Triss’s feelings, her own – she hates doubting herself in this way.

“We met a witcher recently, didn’t we Lady Merigold?” Kilian remembers, oblivious to Yennefer’s inner turmoil. “From the School of the Griffin. Their school is in Kovir, so we had a good chat about home.”

“Yes. We actually offered him a contract to get rid of whatever monster’s lurking around this well.” Triss mentions. “But a group of alghouls were causing trouble in the forests near Downwarren, so he’d agreed to take that first, then come back for ours. We haven’t seen him since, though.”

They met Oskar, then. “He was attacked.” Yennefer tells them. “He was injured grievously by a leshen and almost killed off by a hoard of drowners. Thankfully, we were able to save him.”

“A leshen…” Triss shakes her head. “One more problem after another. The blight is more than enough to deal with, let alone the Crone.”

“I’ve heard lots of speculation that some villages won’t survive the winter. Do you think that’s true?” Shani asks, the first question she’s volunteered in their walk over.

Triss grimaces. “After the end of the war, villages across the region have all gotten much bigger – a surge in repopulation. This one included. And that means there isn’t enough food to go around, no matter how we ration it or how much food aid comes in. If we were able to plant the right crops, ones that might survive through winter, and with a _lot_ of magical aid, we might’ve been able to create a small harvest to carry people through the winter, but because of the blight, that’s not going to work. The soil is sick, and I can’t fix it. Getting rid of the Crone is the only way.”

Trying not to sound too interrogative, Yennefer asks, “what does King Tankred Thyssen think of this plan?”

Triss sighs. “He doesn’t understand. None of the other royal advisors do, either.”

“They don’t believe the Crone is real?”

“No, not at all. In fairness, it all does seem far-fetched…None of them have been to Velen. And I suppose none of them know Ciri and Geralt. If not for them telling us about the Crones, I might not have believed it either. If I could just get some evidence that she exists, then I might be able to convince them.”

“They won’t come on your word alone?” Yennefer asks, though she suspects the answer.

“No. It’s a long way from Kovir to Velen. And they probably wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Yes, the Nilfgaardians wouldn’t be thrilled to have a foreign power suddenly invading their state.” Yennefer muses. “After all, that’s their job.”

“Exactly. If I can convince them of the Crone’s existence, they might decide it’s worth bringing over other mages or soldiers to help kill the Crone. But until then, I’m sure they won’t.”

“Are you sure they’ll even send you reinforcement?” Yennefer asks innocently. “After all, Kovir owes no debt to Temeria or Velen. And the Crone is not an easy foe to defeat.”

“I’ll make them.” Triss answers firmly. “We can’t just abandon these people.”

Hm. There’s still something missing, something she’s not going to give up easily. Of course, Triss wouldn’t reveal anything in front of Shani, but there’s a chance she may be holding back words in front of Kilian, too. Yennefer glances at him. He’s been listening to the conversation attentively, taking particular interest in Triss’s words, smiling and nodding enthusiastically whenever she speaks. The devotion of a student, and of a love-struck youth. Would Triss feel comfortable revealing national secrets to Yennefer in his presence? He clearly likes her, but he also seems to very patriotic. No, she should try to press more about the matter when he’s absent.

Besides, they’re quickly approaching the well. Yennefer can see it up ahead, an unassuming circle of stones shielded by a wooden roof. It must be new, for the rot and mould on the wood is minimal. That’s impressive by Velen standards. The well stands surrounded by long grass and sparse bushes. A path, lined with stones, has been decorated with faded blood. The dried grass shivers in the wind, while a crow perches atop the shed, staring at them with blank, beady eyes.

Shani walks over to the well, peering tentatively inside. “Nothing’s going to jump out at me, is it?”

“Let me look around first.” Yennefer walks around the well, looking for any clues of the monster’s identity. There’s not enough swamp here for a drowner, and there’s no way any of the insectoid class could mimic a child’s voice. Would a nekker manage it? Unlikely, but not impossible. How about some sort of spectre? Geralt mentioned fighting a spectre by a well, told her the tragic story of the woman’s death.

“Did anyone die near here? Any women?” Yennefer asks.

“Not that we know of.” Triss tells her. “I’m sure many women perished in the war, but I don’t know any tales of them dying near this well specifically.”

Yennefer carefully looks through the grass for any sign of a wedding ring, torn veil or the like. She peers down the well, using a light spell to see into the dark better. Nothing.

“…Perhaps not a wraith.” She decides. “What else would make that variety of noises?”

“Maybe there’s more than one type of monster?” Kilian suggests.

“Water hags and drowners will co-exist together, but I don’t know of other species that do.” Triss frowns. “Certainly not one that roars like a dragon, then sounds like a child. That is, if the monster even makes those noises. The villagers could just be mistaken, and we’re basing our investigation off of inaccuracies.”

Yennefer thinks hard. Geralt had so many tales of monsters, and many among those were so fearsome or unusual that lesser witchers might have well perished. There are so many to consider – process of elimination should be the easiest method. Ogroids are almost certainly out of the picture, too big to fit this scene. The well would probably be destroyed, and eye witness accounts clearer. Insectoids, too. She can find no evidence of spectres, and she’s not sure if they could be controlled by even the Crone. Werewolves have been known to fall under the Crone’s thrall, but there’s no pattern of attacks corresponding with full moons here. Drowners are far more abundant, as are water hags, but there isn’t enough water aside from the well. A grave hag? There’s certainly no shortage of bodies…But this seems beyond a grave hag’s capabilities, especially the noises. What other monsters are abundant in the swamp?

A story suddenly flashes in Yennefer’s mind. When Geralt and Lambert had set out to collect energy for the phylactery to lift Uma’s curse, when they had travelled through caves and the wildlands outside of Kaer Morhen where the witcher trainees had gone through gruelling trials…the sound of a boy calling for help.

The growling noise starts again. When Yennefer looks towards the forests, she sees a fog rolling in over the fields, approaching much faster than a natural fog would. She can spy lights hovering in the mists, tantalising to a weary traveller lost in the dark.

“Shani, get behind me.” She orders quickly. “I’m going to raise a shield.”

When Triss follows her gaze – sees the fog rolling towards them – the realisation of their foe hits her.

“Foglet.” Triss realises. “Kilian, come here! If all three of us raise a shield, it’ll last longer!”

They form a protective circle around Shani, and raise out their hands as the fog comes closer, all chanting and channelling magic throughout them. A shield of orange, purple and red colours bleeding into one another forms around them. Butterflies dance, lilac blooms and dragonflies speed around the peripheries. Fog rolls up and crashes against the outer shell, like sea water. The crow still watches them.

A crash against the shield. Even without touching the shield physically, the force of the blow sends shock waves up Yennefer’s arms.

There. Pointed ears, burning blue eyes, a short snout where ugly fangs jut out. A pale body stalks along the border of their shield, claws long and itching to strike.

Another crash, this one coming from Triss’s side. More than one. That’s not good.

“I thought these things were nocturnal.” Triss says through gritted teeth.

“So did I.” The Crone’s doing, no doubt. “How many do you see?”

“I see three.” Kilian sounds nervous.

“Three? Or one and two illusory foglets?”

“Three.” He confirms.

“Well, shit.”

“You don’t happen to have any necrophage oil on you?” Triss asks.

“Sadly not. No moondust bombs?” Yennefer asks.

“No.” Triss looks out. “These things are pretty strong, right?”

“Yes. And they’re impossible to hit in fog form.”

As if hearing her words, the creeping figures suddenly dematerialise back into the fog. Soon, Yennefer can hear strange noises. A young girl crying. A bear roaring. Wolves howling, crows squawking and squabbling. What behaviour is this? This isn’t going to make them drop their shield. Are the foglets just toying with them? Is the Crone just toying with them?

“We can’t hold this up forever.” Triss keeps her hands steady. “Even with all three of us.”

“What spells are they immune to?” Kilian asks. “Should we just blast them?”

“When they’re in the fog like that, it’s impossible to land a direct hit.” Yennefer repeats.

“If worse comes to worst, can we run?” He asks.

“If we can outrun that fog.”

Another crash almost forces Yennefer’s hands away. She grounds herself, but she’s tiring. She can tell Triss and Kilian are too. When another crash lands against the shield, the colours spark with electricity and get fainter.

“We need to get ready to fight!” Triss steadies herself. “We’ll have to spread fire throughout the fog to try and smoke them out! Get ready to put the shield down!”

“Wait.” An idea suddenly comes to Yennefer. “Hold the shield for just a minute longer.”

“Do you have a plan?” Triss’s voice sounds strained from effort.

“Just wait a little longer.” Yennefer forces her mind to concentrate. Come on, come on…Any second…

A strong gale of wind blows across the well. The bucket rocks on its chain.

And the fog disperses. The bodies of foglets are suddenly visible.

“Now!”

They lower the shield. Yennefer casts a lightning bolt and throws it at her nearest foglet. She does not wait to see the damage – she casts another and another, not giving the foglet a chance to rest. Triss showers a steady stream of fire against another, unrelenting. They cannot let the foglets hide, start sending shadowy illusions after them. Kilian casts strong gales when the natural wind dies down, dispelling the fog and forcing the remaining foglet out of hiding.

It instantly pounces towards him, a sharp and powerful strike that can’t be blocked easily. He dives to the side, the claws catching on his cloak and shredding the material.

Triss grits her teeth, and averts her flame to Kilian’s attacker. The foglet squeals and backs away, but it’s not dead. When Yennefer blasts lightning towards it, though, it crumples into a charred heap.

She diverts her attention to the foglet she injured earlier, throwing more lightning. It’s heavily wounded, but just fast enough to dodge her and Triss’s strikes. It flails wildly, almost hitting Triss with its elongated claws. Gritting her teeth, Yennefer aims a blast of purple flame. “Get down, Triss!”

Ducking down, Triss avoids being hit by the violet flame. The foglet is not so fortunate, and thuds to the ground.

“Yennefer!” Shani’s panicked voice comes from behind her. Yennefer turns, coming face to face with a foglet. She raises her hands to cast a spell she knows will be too late –

But a jet of flame hits the foglet instead. It goes flying, hits the well, and does not move again.

“Thank you.” Yennefer smiles at Triss, who extinguishes the flames in her hands.

Triss smiles back. “Just returning the favour. Besides, you know I’ve got your back.”

At this, Yennefer smiles thinly. She quickly turns to Shani, changing topic lest she struggle to contain her emotions. “Are you all right, Shani?”

Her grip tight on Yennefer’s arm, Shani does not move from behind her. She peers at the foglet bodies for a few moments, as if expecting them to come to life and start attacking them again.

When the foglets remain very much dead, she steps out from behind Yennefer. “I’m fine. Thanks for covering me.” Giving the bodies a wide berth, Shani walks tentatively back to the well. When she begins lowering the bucket in, no monsters jump out to attack her.

She sighs in relief. “That was intense. I’m glad you were all with me.”

“I suppose that’s the closest you’ve been to a monster fight?” Yennefer asks, wiping some blood off her boots.

“Actually, no.” Shani begins turning the winch. “Surprisingly – I try to keep well away from that sort of thing. But three years ago, I saw something much worse than foglets. It was when I met Geralt in Oxenfurt. He was hunting a monstrous toad that was poisoning the water supply. I had gone down there with a group of soldiers looking for a cure, but the monster attacked, and I was the only survivor. At least all three of you managed to beat these foglets, and not the other way around.”

Of course, with the mention of Geralt, Yennefer feels an inevitable spark of tension between Shani and Triss - they accidentally meet each other's gaze, only to avert it quickly. But the tension is short lived, with neither brining up any past grievances; whatever petty rivalry the two shared in the past is thankfully gone. Neither would stoop so low as to start fighting with each other over such matters anymore. No love has been lost here, but neither does resentment linger. Only slight awkwardness, which is far better.

Besides, Yennefer is glad that no such argument has arisen, for something Shani said has piqued her interest. She'd mentioned the monster before, but she hadn't described it. “Shani, you said the monster was a toad – you don’t mean the cursed Ofieri Prince, do you?”

“You’ve heard about it?”

“Bits and pieces. Did you ever meet Olgierd von Everec?”

“Not personally, no. I learnt about him and his family when I was at university, and I heard all about him – namely the stupid wishes he made Geralt grant – but I never actually met him face to face. Do you have some interest in him?”

“Not me, actually. Ameer would be interested to meet him, though. Meet him, and then kill him.” 

“For the prince?”

“Yes, though I’m not sure if this particular aspiration will ever be realised.” There’s no knowing where Olgierd may have gone in these past three years, or if he’s even still alive. Ameer's oddly patriotic mission – he is proud of his culture, yes, but Yennefer didn’t think it was to this degree, and he’s certainly not an Ofieri royalist either – may never be fulfilled.

As Shani winds the wench, bringing the bucket back up, Triss looks down into the well. “It’s way too deep for us to see the water’s surface. Could we use that bucket?”

“Of course.” Shani places the bucket carefully down on the ground and takes a step backwards.

“I’m assuming you have some sort of possession of the Crone?” Yennefer asks.

Grimacing, Triss takes out something wrapped in cloth. From the smell alone, Yennefer realises what it must be.

Triss unwraps the possession, revealing a severed ear. “I asked around this morning, and found out one of the villagers brought this back from the orphanage. I’m not exactly sure why – regret, maybe. This is as close to a possession from the Crone as we can get.”

“Are you sure we won’t just end up with a vision of whoever this ear belongs to?” Yennefer points out.

“It’s a possibility.” Triss admits. “But this is all we have. Besides, if the Crone has claimed this, then it technically belongs to her.”

“All right. You should take the lead.” She glances at Shani. “And you should take a step back. I’ve no notion of what might appear.”

Without compliant, Shani keeps her distance. Meanwhile, Kilian does the opposite and sits right next to the bucket, peering carefully inside.

“If anything appears – anything at all – let us know.” Triss tells him. He nods eagerly.

When Triss holds out her hands, Yennefer does the same, exhaling deeply and readying herself.

“Greame et dwyr! Rhobeir'me gelle a failte!” She and Triss chant the words, feeling a tingling sensation in their hands. If Yennefer’s eyes were open, she’d see the water in the bucket rippling and changing colour.

“Greame et dwyr! Deagnis cair-lle ess pyr'shena et cleytte!” Around the ear, Yennefer can sense the vile aura of the Crone, just as Triss predicted. Steeling her mind, Yennefer searches for more of this aura, sending a wave of psychic magic to scour over Velen. It’s not hard to sense it, at all – Weavess’s presence is strong.

But when Yennefer reaches out to the presence, tries to grasp it and force its image onto the water’s surface, she instantly feels a resistant force. Not born out of inexperience, but caused by some external presence pushing against them. Wincing at the painful barrier, thick as mud, she tries again. No matter how hard she tries to grasp it, her mind withers against the impossibly vast and shifting pressure as it continues to build.

“One more time!” Triss cries, her voice strained.

They don’t even make it to the second word before the resistance becomes unbearably painful.

A sharp, hot flash. Like a poker, or some stray wildfire. Yennefer feels it for only a second before automatically abandoning her grip and retreating her mind. Yet that single second is enough to swarm her head with agony. Her eyes snap open – but her vision quickly fades.

-

She wakes up to the sensation of wet cloth on her forehead.

What the…Yennefer realises she’s not lying on the ground, but on something soft.

Stifling a groan, she opens her eyes. The tent’s ceiling is above her. No wind, no damp muggy air. How did she get here?

To her right, she hears a groan. It sounds like Triss, but Yennefer feels too weak to even move her head.

“Careful. Don’t move.” That voice belongs to Shani. Yennefer hears the splashing of water.

“What happened?” Triss asks.

“You cast that spell, and then…well, I don’t know what happened. But you both passed out.”

“…Is this our tent? How…”

“Killian teleported you both here with a portal.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s getting the foglet corpses away from the well and burning them, so they don’t end up contaminating the water.”

“I should go –”

“No way. You’re staying in bed.” Shani says firmly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“I can’t stay in bed all day. We need to find out how to lure out the Crone.”

“You won’t get far if you immediately pass out again.” Shani retaliates.

“…All right.” Triss relents eventually. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“That’s all right.” Shani says, and Yennefer hears another splash of water. “I know you just want to help.”

“I haven’t done much to help at all. The blight is still as bad as ever. And this is another dead end.”

“At least you’re trying. I hear most other mages just ran a few tests and left.”

Triss is silent for a long time. As the pain begins to subside in Yennefer’s head, she considers attempting to move or speak up.

Until Triss speaks up. “I wanted to say…I’m sorry. About everything that happened back then.”

“What?” Shani sounds surprised. She’s not the only one; Yennefer listens in disbelief as Triss answers.

“In Vizima. I wasn’t kind to you.”

Shani hesitates for a moment. When she speaks, there’s a hint of amusement in her voice. “I should apologise too. I wasn’t kind, either.”

“…We were stupid back then, weren’t we?”

“We were.” Again, Shani hesitates. “I called you a hag.”

“No! Really?”

“Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

Triss thinks about this. “Well, I shouldn’t complain. I’m certain I called you a whore at some point.”

“Ouch!” Shani’s laughing, though.

“A whore and a hag. We were both pretty terrible to each other, weren’t we?”

“We were. I hope I’ve managed to mature even a little since then. Thinking about it makes me want to die with embarrassment.”

“Me too…That’s been weighing on my mind for a while. I’m glad I was able to see you again.”

“Me too.” Shani says genuinely. “Really, I am.”

It’s all Yennefer can do to lie still, pretend she hasn’t been eavesdropping in on this conversation. She’s overcome with a sudden surge of rage. How – these two barely knew each other, and they’re openly speaking about their history and mistakes! Yet whenever Triss looks upon Yennefer, it’s with a cheerful smile as their own history goes unspoken and unmentioned. Why? It angers Yennefer more than she’d like to admit. But if she were to speak up now, it would mean admitting she’s just eavesdropped on their conversation. So, when she hears Shani approaching, she quickly closes her eyes and relaxes her body.

“This hydromancy spell really did a number on you, huh?” Shani remarks, taking the cloth from Yennefer’s forehead and replenishing its moistness. “What exactly happened?”

“The Crone realised we were trying to snoop around, and she punished us for it.” Triss explains solemnly. “I didn’t realise she had that kind of power…we shouldn’t underestimate her again.”

Outside the tent, Yennefer hears footsteps. “Lady Merigold! You’re all right!” That’s Killian’s voice. “I’m so relieved!”

“Don’t worry. It’ll take more than that to get rid of me.” Triss says with a wry voice. “Though I have a feeling I shouldn’t try that spell again anytime soon.”

“I think I agree with you, Lady Merigold. Are you feeling better now? You’ve got a meeting soon. A progress report.”

Triss groans. “Right. I forgot. Another pointless progress report.” Yennefer hears her get up from the bed. “We should check on the soil tests in the fields beforehand quickly – not that they’ll show anything new, I’m sure.”

“Lady Merigold, are you certain that you’re well enough –”

“I’m fine, Kilian.” She insists. “And it’ll be quicker if we both check. Come on.”

Yennefer waits a minute, making sure that they’ve left, before sitting up. The action makes her feel dizzier than she expected.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Shani says in surprise, then kneels down next to her. “How are you feeling?

“Better. Thank you.” Yennefer begins to stand up – and is surprised at the strength in which Shani forces her back down.

“You don’t look better. Your face is terribly pale.” Shani points out. “Don’t rush up. Rest a bit more.”

Yennefer is too tired to argue. She doesn’t lie down, though, instead sitting up and massaging her aching temples. “…Shani, I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Her mind is racing, despite how each thought sends a twinge of pain through her brain. “In Triss’s bags – I need you to find something for me. Crystals. About three of them. They’re large enough, the size of your hand with your fingers outstretched.”

“Crystals?” Shani sounds uncomfortable. “Why?”

“Just trust me and do as I say. Please.”

Hesitating, Shani turns to Triss’s belongings and rummages around carefully. At last, she pulls out some large crystals.

“Bring them here.” Yennefer flexes her fingers, mentally preparing herself for more magic. She hopes she’s recovered enough to pull it off.

When Shani places the crystals before her, Yennefer hovers her outstretched palm over them. Triss said she had some sort of meeting with someone from Kovir – no doubt she’ll be using a megascope to converse with them.

So, time for a spell. Yennefer spreads a charm across the crystals, dispersing a thin film of magic across the polished surfaces. It settles onto them with an opalescent glimmer, which quickly fades and turns undetectable.

“What did you do?” Shani asks.

“Let’s return to our room first.” Yennefer insists. “Then I’ll explain. Help me put the crystals back first.”

“All right.” Shani relents. “But you need to take it easy. No overexerting yourself.”

When Shani helps Yennefer up and walks her out of the tent, Yennefer doesn’t protest as she normally would. She’s still too tired from their failed hydromancy attempt. Biting back her pride, she allows Shani to escort her back to their lodging, ignoring the continued stares of the villagers. There’s fewer of them now, having finished their tasks for the day, but those still outside make sure to fall silent and watch as they pass. No scathing remarks, no suspicious murmurs, no insults aimed at their professions, all types of hostility that Yennefer would normally expect and is, in fact, accustomed to. Just silence. Somehow, that’s even worse. Yennefer is glad for the privacy when they reach their room.

“What’s going on, then?” Shani asks, arms folded and staring resolutely. “What was that spell you cast?”

Yennefer sits down on the bed, massaging her temples. “Take out my megascope crystals and apparatus.”

Frowning, Shani does as she asks with an air of frustration, looking back at Yennefer. “There. Now what?”

“Now, I’m going to cast the same spell on my own megascope.” Yennefer explains. “So, whatever conversation Triss has over her megascope, I’ll be able to see it too.”

“Really?” Shani’s eyes widen. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“When it comes to treating a patient, what is the most important thing?” Yennefer asks.

“Patient history.” Shani says immediately. “A lot of the time, the patient’s story of their symptoms will help you find the diagnosis without even needing proper tests.”

“Exactly. Ameer told me the same thing when we first met. The problem is, patients will sometimes lie or hide things, which makes diagnosis a lot trickier.” With a grunt, Yennefer stands up and walks to her crystals. The pain has eased now, and she casts the spell without difficulty. “The more information you receive, the easier finding a diagnosis will be, and if we’re being lied to…Well, we’d better find out the truth.”

“You’re eavesdropping on her?” Shani surmises.

Yennefer laughs wryly. “For all my fancy words and analogies, you call it out for what it truly is. I’d like to bring you to a mage’s ball one day; it could stand to be very amusing. But to answer your question, yes I am. Triss is hiding something from us.”

“She’s hiding something from us?”

“Yes. Something isn’t adding up about her presence here in Lurtch, and I’d like to know what. If that makes you uncomfortable, you’re more than welcome to leave, though I’d request you not tell Triss about what I’m doing.”

Shani thinks about this for a long time. At last, she sits on the bed. “…No. I’ll stay. I hadn’t noticed anything suspicious, and I’m curious now.”

Yennefer smiles. “In that case, please make sure to stay silent and out of the megascope’s radius.”

They aren’t left waiting long. The air between the crystals begins to glow with blue light, and soon, two images appear, separated by a sheet resembling a pane of glass.

“Miss Merigold.” The first is an older man, dressed in intricate clothing, who regards her with irritation. “You took your time.”

The second is Triss herself, who replies evenly, “I was checking the most recent soil test results in the surrounding fields.”

“And?”

“All negative.”

He huffs. “That’s less than ideal…Try and be more punctual next time, anyway. I have many other appointments scheduled today.”

“Did you arrange a meeting with the king’s advisor just to complain?” She asks him pointedly.

“…Fine. Fine.” He waves his hand. “You haven’t missed much.”

He goes on to describe the financial dramas of Kovir, trade deals and taxes, exports and imports. Yennefer listens tediously, feeling as bored as Triss looks.

But she forces herself through it. She desperately wants to know what Triss is up to. No, she _needs_ to know what political dangers are going on here, then get herself, her travellers – and most importantly Geralt – far away from it without any complaints from Zoltan.

“…Now. How has your blight problem been going?” The advisor asks.

Triss sighs. “Michkel. I’ve told you time and time again what the problem is.”

Now the advisor sighs. “The King isn’t going to believe stories about an old branch of the Melitele cult. If the soil tests came back negative, what about the water tests?”

“Just like I told you the four other times I’ve carried them out, they’re all negative. There’s no bacteria, no fungus, nothing. Not in the soil, not in the water, not in the air. The blight isn’t being caused by conventional means. It doesn’t matter how many times we repeat the tests, Michkel, that isn’t going to change.”

“And, what, you think some ancient, made up abomination is a more likely answer?”

“I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I wasn’t completely certain. And since there’s no bacteria or fungus causing the problem, that means I can’t fix the soil. People are going to starve if we don’t get to the root of the problem –”

“Please, Miss Merigold, stay on track.” The advisor interrupts. “You know very well what comes first in this mission.”

“I know that. But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and help these people.” She shoots back.

The advisor paces in and out of the image for a few moments, clearly agitated.

“…Let’s return to the most important part of this mission. This…This ‘Crone’.” He stops pacing. “Could the Nilfgaardians use it against us? As a weapon?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“The Crones don’t work for anyone.” Triss explains. “They rule Velen, demand sacrifice for their assistance in keeping the villagers alive, and kill anyone who gets in their way. They don’t think like us, barter and negotiate like us. No Nilfgaardian could manipulate them or threaten them into warfare.”

He nods thoughtfully. “And this Crone, many people have seen it?”

“In the past, yes.”

His eyes harden. “No, Miss Merigold. Has it been seen recently?”

Her face falls. Quietly, she replies, “…Not recently.”

The advisor sighs in exasperation and anger. “Are you serious? How do you expect us to believe the story of some folktale monster that no one has seen?!”

“I didn’t say no one had seen it! Just not recently!” She argues.

“Miss Merigold, you have one purpose here.” He interrupts her loudly. “One purpose. Find the cause of the blight. Find it before the Nilfgaardians do, before they can use it for warfare. You know how important this is. You know they’ve been eyeing up our kingdom, itching to take over our rich resources the same way they took over everywhere else in the north. We cannot let them gain anything that might give them an advantage in war, god forbid it ever comes to that. Yet you’re wasting time chasing fairy tales!”

“It’s not a fairy tale! I’m telling the truth! You know me, I wouldn’t lie or exaggerate about something so important!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “…Do you have any proof? Any proof at all?”

“…I _might_ be able to get you two reliable eye witness accounts.” She says after a moment of thinking. “About four years old, but that should be recent enough. I’d really rather not, but if that’s the only option…”

“Four years…That’s not particularly recent.”

“The Crone is hiding. She’s not showing herself. Four years is as good as I can get. And trying to go into those swamps to get evidence with just me and Kilian will be suicide. She's already interfered with my spells to track her down, and I'm sure she'll start getting violent if I head into the swamps. It’s way too dangerous – because of her. I definitely can’t kill her all by myself. I’m going to need help.”

Once more, the advisor paces back and forth, thinking carefully. At last, he speaks up.

“…If you get these eye witnesses to speak to us, then perhaps the King might consider sending more specialists over to help you investigate your claim further. No promises. No army to kill this monster. But you get those witness accounts, then you get more people who can help you obtain evidence, and then we’ll start considering more reinforcements to kill it.”

Still, Triss looks frustrated. “Why won’t anyone just believe me? Does ‘advisor to the king’ mean nothing?”

“It’s nothing personal, Miss Merigold.” He assures her. “Trust me. But you know how tenuous our relationship is with Nilfgaard. Your presence there is already a risk. They can, and will, try to claim that reinforcements are some hostile attack and use it as an excuse to retaliate. No one in Kovir wants to risk war with Nilfgaard. The King is going to take some convincing to agree on sending more reinforcements over. He won’t be convinced on one person’s word alone, whether that be a lowly peasant or the King’s advisor herself.”

She sighs, but nods. “…I understand. I’d really rather not get those eye witnesses involved –”

“Then find other ones. I don’t care if it’s a noble or a peasant. Get an eye witness account, and then we can negotiate sending over more reinforcements.”

Triss nods, speaking thoughtfully, more to herself than to the advisor. “If I can’t find any other eye witnesses…I guess I’ll have no choice but to call on them. Yennefer should know where to find them, if it comes to that.”

Wait. Yennefer feels a wave of panic wash through her. Does she mean Geralt and Ciri? Shit. She must do. That's very, very bad.

“In the meantime, keep up your tests and experiments on the soil – and consider changing villages in a week or so. Now, we have another matter to discuss. We’ve been having difficulties with some gold extraction – gas pockets are making it too dangerous to mine. Do you have any opinions about how to proceed?”

More talk about Kovir’s bureaucratic woes. Useless for Yennefer. She steps away from the megascope, thoughts racing. The feeling of guilt is admittedly among them – spying like this is both unsavoury and disrespectful, after all. But with that guilt comes the overwhelming satisfaction of knowing she was _right_.

She turns one of the megascope crystals, muting the conversation – and more importantly, their own. “I knew it. I knew there was some other reason for the King’s advisor to be here.”

On the bed, Shani frowns. “That didn’t sound good, but I don’t quite understand. What does this mean?”

“It means that Kovir is racing to find the cause of the blight to either use against Nilfgaard, or to stop Nilfgaard from using it themselves. And that means we’re liable to get caught up in a very nasty espionage war.” Yennefer sums up. “We’ve enough to do without worrying about that.” Namely, she refuses to put Geralt at risk, but she doesn’t say that to Shani. “As soon as Regis, Ameer and the others return from their experiments, we need to leave, no matter what Witold says. We’ll find somewhere else to conduct our experiments, somewhere safer than here.”

Shani nods gravely. “I understand. I definitely don’t want to get caught up in something like that – this is completely beyond my level of expertise. But…what will you tell Triss?”

“I’ll think of something., don’t worry.” Though that’s not her real concern here. Those eye witnesses from two years ago – she can only mean Geralt and Ciri.

And if Triss tries to speak with them, the truth about Geralt will immediately be revealed.

“We need to start packing, so we’re ready to leave immediately.” Yennefer continues.

Shani bites her lip. “There were a few more villagers I wanted to treat. I wanted to check up on Sabina again, too. If I leave, and then Triss is caught up in all this political madness, no one will be there to help.”

“All right. But don’t tell anyone we’re planning to leave; I’d rather Triss not know until the last possible second.”

“I’ll be as fast as I can.” Shani gathers up her bag. “I’ll help you when I get back.”

When she leaves, Yennefer wastes no time in throwing everyone’s belongings together. Thankfully, no one really fully unpacked here; in fact, it’s Yennefer herself who unpacked the most, so she spends most of her time gathering together her own belongings. All the while, her mind races. What excuse will she give Triss? What about Triss’s plan to get Geralt and Ciri as witnesses? She hopes that Triss will refrain from asking them, knowing how neither will be happy to speak up at a Koviri court, but she can’t rely on that. It’s been four years since she last saw Triss, after all. Yennefer has no idea how her priorities might have changed. If she does, how does Yennefer dissuade them from doing this without revealing the truth?...Is it even possible?

Her mind buzzing with thoughts, Yennefer is glad for the task of packing to focus on instead. It steadies her, and calms her growing anxiety.

At last, she’s finished, and walks to her megascope, the final thing to put away. All the while, Triss and her fellow advisor have been speaking mutely with each other.

When Yennefer reaches for the first crystal, though, she pauses.

While the advisor bores Triss, she sees a strange light interfering with his visage. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the angle he’s standing at now makes it shine in his face, obscuring his nose and mouth. Is it a problem with her megascope? She rechecks the crystals, but there’s nothing wrong with them. She’s always exceedingly careful with her crystals, given the disastrous and explosive potentials of faulty gems.

No problem here. Is it with the connection of her spell? Yet Triss is entirely clear, her uninterested expression easy to see.

Yennefer walks to different areas of the room, trying to change the angle of her view. Is it just the dying light from the windows? No, covering them doesn’t make a difference…

Wait. When she stands at a very specific angle, the spot of light changes. The advisor’s face remains obscured, but the light turns from a mere opaque smear to something more detailed. She steps forwards, leaning closer to the image to get a better look.

A tiny image of room with an unpanelled window. Every few second, something large crosses in front of the window.

Quickly, Yennefer realises what this is. Someone else is spying on this conversation. She’s not the only one in the village who can cast that eavesdropping spell.

A Nilfgaardian spy. It has to be.

She hurries to her crystals, unmuting the conversation and twisting them in their vices with painful slowness. These two spells cast by different mages are connected now, eavesdropping on the same signal. That means she should have access to its magical energy waves. A few millimetres clockwise – no anti-clockwise – now onto the next one. As she spins the crystals and fidgets with them, the patchy image obscuring the advisor’s face becomes bigger and bigger. Soon, his whole upper body is hidden. Still it grows, spilling over to cover Triss as well. Her and the advisor’s conversation becomes duller, increasingly difficult to understand.

In their place, she sees a dusty wooden floor and the unpanelled window. What she now realises are the blades of the windmill pass by on regular intervals. Remains of straw and wheat litter the floor. And in the middle, she sees the edges of a megascope having been set up. An image is playing within it.

In some bizarre, confusing mess, she can see and hear faintly the conversation she was just listening to – Triss and the advisor talking together. Whoever this person is, they’re definitely eavesdropping.

This goes on for some time, until at last Triss and the advisor finish their meeting. The conversation ends, the image vanishes. And in its place, a new one appears.

A man wearing expensive velvet clothes, with a frilled collar and golden cufflinks, looks expectantly in through the megascope.

“Well?” He asks. “What have you learnt?” To her surprise, the man's accent is Redanian, and he speaks in Common. It seems the nobles and lords have quickly learnt to fall into the Empire's good graces - enough to get them very prestigious positions, in fact.

A man stands opposite him, dressed inconspicuously in the same, old-fashioned clothes as the other villagers of Lurtch. Unlike the man, he speaks with a Nilfgaaridan accent. “The Koviri sorceress says the soil tests were negative – ours were the same. Instead, she thinks…”

“She thinks what?”

“She thinks it’s some kind of cannibalistic monster causing the blight. A…A Crone.”

“A monster? A _Crone_?” The man repeats. “How is a ‘Crone’ causing plant rot?”

“Well, she seems to think this Crone is somehow poisoning the plants. She…wishes to kill this monster. She thinks that doing so will stop the blight.”

At once, the man bursts out laughing. “Good! Those Koviri idiots are even more foolish than I thought. A monstrous old lady poisoning the plants…What rubbish. I trust you are having more luck finding the real cause?”

“I…” the spy pauses. “The most recent test came back negative again, sir.”

“Oh? Well, try another one.”

Again, the man pauses. “It’s not so simple, I’m afraid.”

The man narrows his eyes. “How so?” When the spy fails to respond, the man scowls. “Don’t tell me you _believe_ that trite?”

“I’m running out of any other reasonable explanations –”

“ _Reasonable_?” The man demands. “A cannibal crone that poisons plants is reasonable?”

“You haven’t been here.” The spy defends himself. “You don’t know what it’s like here. These people – they’re crazy! They’re like, a-a cult! All these monsters appearing, terrorising them, and they still worship these Crones! In the past, they even sacrificed their own children! You think they’d do something like that unless they were sure it was real? That there was even the slightest bit of truth to it?”

“I don’t –”

“And the animals here – they’ve abandoned their normal behaviours, live rabid and feral, even the herbivores! You think some blight or tree disease could do something like this? Something is wrong here, I’m telling you! We’re playing with something we don’t understand and shouldn’t be meddling with!”

The spy suddenly falls silent. Judging from the thunderous expression of the man, it’s clear he’s said too much.

“Tell me. Do you want to go to war?”

“…No, sir.”

“Do you want our Empire to fall?”

“…No, sir.”

“What would happen if we went to war with Kovir?”

“…We do not have the funds for war after our last northern war. Kovir has many. We may have more armies, but Kovir will either beat us, or we will come to a vicious stalemate with many lives lost.”

“Very good!” The man says condescendingly. “So, what is the point of your mission?”

“Find the cause of the bight before Kovir, and neutralise it before it can be used as a weapon against us. Or, take it for ourselves.”

“There. You haven’t taken complete leave of your senses, then. Perhaps you’ve caught some dreadful swamp disease that’s affected your brain, or else you’d never be so foolish and disrespectful to a superior officer. Otherwise I’d have you thrown in jail.”

His thinly veiled threat is clear. “…Yes, sir. I’ve come over unwell. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Now, forget all about that monster nonsense, find out the cause of the blight – and never speak to me like that again, or wars and monsters will be the least of your problems. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Yennefer’s mind crowds with thoughts. This village is the epicentre of a tense stalemate between Nilfgaard and Kovir. Both desperately trying to search for, use or destroy what they believe to be the blight’s origin. Both equally desperate to keep that hidden from the other, to stop the tension from snapping and war breaking out.

She has to get away from this. The cunning, cutthroat treachery of politics is something Yennefer hasn’t missed. Doesn’t miss. She has no desire to return to that game of trickery and lying, and feels something akin to anxiety upon returning to it. At least when she confronted Philippa, she _needed_ to, no matter how unpleasant it was. There’s no merit to this.

But this isn’t just about her. Triss was considering the option of calling on Geralt and Ciri as eye witnesses, with no idea that the Nillfgaardians are monitoring her. Who knows how many other spies are in this village? She cannot risk having the Nilfgaardians find out about Geralt, or else they could use him against Triss as leverage – or worse. She’d already explained this fear to Zoltan – and now, her worst fear has come true. She has to get him away from here. Their quest to find the Crone will be dangerous enough without an assassination wanted on him.

But with this stressful realisation comes a glimmer of excitement. She can use this as a reason to leave Lurtch without Triss getting suspicious, without having to tell her about Geralt when who knows how many other Nilfgaardian agents have been watching her. If Yennefer were to apprehend the spy whose conversation she overheard, she could bring him to Triss and tell her that she plans to leave, without admitting that Yennefer was spying on her too.

This is good, she tells herself. This is going to work out fine after all. With everything packed and ready to go, she hastily pulls on her cloak and hurries out of the lodgings. That window – it has to be the windmill.

The village is almost entirely empty now. The encroaching darkness and bad weather has chased everyone inside. Yennefer sees only one person – an old woman sitting in her house, staring out of the opened window. She watches Yennefer with an unflinching, blank stare. Again, even when Yennefer matches her gaze, the old woman does not avert her eyes or feign coyness. She just stares.

But Yennefer ignores her, for a new problem has reared its head.

She’s not the only one who’s discovered the spy, it seems, for ahead of her, Kilian is cautiously approaching the windmill. The way he’s creeping, the sparks of flame alighting at his fingertips, the resolute and determined frown on his face, makes it clear he’s not just stopping by for a friendly chat.

Damn it. She can’t let him interfere and ruin her element of surprise. After a moment of hesitation she decides to catch his attention.

“Kilian.” Her voice makes him jump, so deep was his concentration. When she beckons him over, he hurries to her, looking around himself nervously. Again, the old woman doesn’t flinch at his gaze, so Yennefer pulls him around the side of a house, well out of sight from the windmill and from any watchful villagers.

“Lady Yennefer, what’s wrong?” He asks innocently. “Is something the matter?”

“Drop the act. You’ve figured out that there’s a spy hiding in the windmill, haven’t you?”

“I –” his eyes are wide in surprise. “I don’t –”

“Don’t bother fumbling for excuses.” Yennefer says tiredly, and a little tensely. “How did you figure it out?”

Though still surprised, Kilian answers, dropping his façade of ignorance. “I noticed a man, always watching us but never getting close, but one who never got close to the other villagers either. A few times, I saw him writing things down in a notebook too, and he was often hanging around near where we set up our soil and water tests. You learn to pick up things like that very quickly when fleeing a country filled to the brim with witch hunters. What about you?”

“The same.” Yennefer lies. “I’ve had plenty of experience with Nilfgaardians, so I figured it out.”

Satisfied at this explanation, Kilian glances around the corner of the house towards the windmill. “You think it’s the Nilfgaardians, then?”

“Who else would it be?” Yennefer covers for her mistake smoothly. “Triss is very familiar with the Temerian court – she was once Foltest’s advisor, after all. They wouldn’t risk sending someone she might recognise, or whose protocol she’d be familiar with. Besides, spying is Nilfgaardian’s greatest strength, and its most frequently used one at that.”

Kilian nods gravely. “If it is a Nilfgaardian, that’s very bad for us.”

“However so?” Now Yennefer feigns ignorance.

Kilian squirms. “Well. It’s…We’re foreigners, after all. They might be trying to frame us in some way, make an excuse to invade us.”

An admirable excuse, and Yennefer doesn’t bother trying to interrogate him further when she already knows the truth.

“Well, things are going to get even trickier for you. I have reason to believe this man’s a mage.”

Kilian turns, eyes wide. “You do? Shit…That means he’s probably got Bhrath or some other security spell set up…If we get near him, he’ll realise we’re coming and destroy all the evidence – or set some kind of trap.”

That is a problem – the more evidence Yennefer has, the more reason she can give Triss for leaving. “…Tell me. You’ve been here longer than I – is there only one entrance to the windmill?”

“No, there are two – one at the front, one around the back.”

“Excellent.” A plan is beginning to form in Yennefer’s mind. “…I’m going to send an illusion past the windmill.” After Nilfgaard, Yennefer learnt that one must always be cautious before entering an enemy’s territory. And thanks to Ameer, she now knows how to create an illusion of herself to take the damage from any surprise attacks lurking around the corner. Of course, the illusion is not nearly as convincing as Ameer’s. It’s a quick, cheap trick, conjured with magic particles to create the form of a woman in a cloak. But Yennefer knows from experience it’s convincing enough to prevent her throat from getting slit the second she steps into the room, something proved when she rescued Dandelion from Rience. This one will be particularly rough around the edges – she isn't completely recovered from the hydromancy – but it should do the trick.

“An illusion?”

“Of a cloaked woman. I’ll send it close enough to trigger the security spell – he’ll want to see who it is, what they’re doing, before destroying his work. After all, I’m sure villagers go near the windmill all the time. I’ll let it linger for a few moments, then send it running towards the forest. Wait a few moments, then approach the windmill and start calling out for someone – a woman’s name. Ask if she’s in the windmill. He won’t want you entering and seeing his work, so he’ll go down in cover and try to make you leave. Keep him talking.”

“And while I keep him talking, you sneak around the back?” Kilian guesses.

“Yes. I’ll incapacitate him. Then we can search his hideout, and bring him to Triss. She can wipe his memories, if needs be.”

“All right.” Kilian peers around the corner again. “You’d better go round the back of the houses so you don’t get spotted. I’ll keep a look out.”

Leaving Kilian, Yennefer begins to carefully approach the windmill, making sure she’s never in the line of sight of its windows for too long. No one’s looking out, but she can’t be too careful. At least this way, she doesn’t have to deal with the villagers staring at her either.

When she gets close to the windmill, its blades turning rhythmically, Yennefer pauses and casts the illusion. Up close, it’s very obviously just a figure crafted from magical particles, but at a distance it should be enough to trick the spy.

She sends it running towards the windmill, head lowered to conceal the non-existent face. The illusion slows when it gets close, lingering, before turning and running out towards the forest. Yennefer peers carefully up at the mill – out a window, she spies a face watching it with a frown.

A minute later, she hears the footsteps of Kilian as he approaches.

“Nancy?” He calls out, as if searching. “Nancy, are you there? Are you in the windmill?”

The face at the window disappears. Yennefer takes that as her cue, and hurries around the back of the windmill. There, the door Kilian mentioned. But, to her dismay, it’s locked. Not with a traditional padlock or bolt that she could easily freeze off, though. At first glance, the door appears to be simply barred with a wooden plank – but there’s an almost imperceptible sheen to the wood. Yennefer knows that if someone were to try and grab the wood, they’d receive a nasty shock. Most likely, it would trigger a security alarm too.

Well, shit. Of course it would be locked. Yennefer mentally scolds herself for not thinking through this most obvious possibility. Any spy worth their salt would have traps and alarms set up in place to keep their bases secure, magic or otherwise. She’s clearly been out of the politics game for a long time, and it’s affected her skills more than she’d like to admit.

She has to get past this, quickly. Faintly from the front of the mill, she can already hear Kilian talking.

“Excuse me, sir. You haven’t happened to see anyone come this way?”

“What kind o’ person?” The spy replies. His accent is good, Yennefer will give him that.

“A woman wearing a black cloak. It’s extremely important that I find her.”

Crouching down, Yennefer hastily starts to cast a spell, muttering the elven chant as quietly as she can. “ _Faigh an cac olc seo ar shiúl_.” Her gloved hands begin to glow purple, as if coated in a protective film. Grimacing, Yennefer places one hand onto the damp grass, then another tentatively onto the wooden beam.

Instantly, she feels an unpleasant, prickling sensation against her skin. But it’s bearable. The spell she cast, and her gloves, prevent the shock from being too painful or pushing her back. Inhaling sharply, she focuses on the flow of electricity. Like a tree conducting a lightning blast. She redirects the security spell through her hand, along her arms, and down into the grass. Her own spell prevents the energy from scorching her. Instead, the grass by her fingertips blackens and wilts.

With one final painful jolt, the security spell by the door fizzles away. Shaking out her now sore hand, Yennefer quickly grabs the wooden beam and lowers it onto the ground. A new sense of urgency flares through her; she’s already wasted far too much time having to disarm this spell.

As she opens the door, she realises she can’t hear Kilian and the spy talking anymore. That doesn’t bode well.

Creeping in as quietly as she can, hoping the wooden floorboards won’t give her away, Yennefer carefully walks through the mill. Most of the back room is crammed with huge agricultural equipment, dust settling in the cobwebs that stretch between the beams. Carefully, Yennefer slips between equipment, and towards the next door. A spider trails down from its web, landing in her hair, investigating her curls with its tiny legs. She doesn’t dare brush it away, doesn’t dare create any unnecessary movement. Each creak from the uneven floorboards makes her heart hammer in her chest.

Fortunately, the next door isn’t magically locked, allowing her to easily push it open. And inside the next room, she is rewarded for her shameless eavesdropping.

If there was any doubt that the spy had set up his lair in this windmill, the sight of the room quashes it. Two of the three megascopes have yet to be dismantled and put away, as have various research equipment and test results. A huge bag filled with notebooks and tomes is slung on the floor, and another’s content glints with a metallic light.

But Yennefer has no chance to investigate the room, or even pass by it to complete her goal of incapacitating the spy. For more creaking floorboards catch her attention. Yennefer pauses, standing still and listening carefully. Footsteps are coming towards her. Voices are getting louder.

“…What’re you going to do with me?” That sounds like Kilian. Damn it. “If you kill me, you know how Kovir will retaliate.”

“You’re going to tell me everything you know.” This time, the spy doesn’t bother with the fake accent. “And then, you’ll forget it all.”

Shit. Yennefer quickly looks around. Her frantic gaze falls on a small wooden door, tucked away in the corner. Wrestling with the ancient, rusty bolt, she pries it open and steps inside. Before she closes it, though, she casts the illusion of the woman in the cloak once more, this time making it stand with its back to the main door, looking out of the window.

Gritting her teeth, she pulls the door shut again, wincing at the high-pitched creak it makes in the process. She’s jammed in next to various old, unused milling and cutting equipment, with leftover grain shells littering the floor. A faint scent of flour mixed in with the dust tickles her throat, and she stifles a cough with difficulty.

Just in time. The voices get even closer, and she hears the door from the adjacent room open. Through the cracks in the wood, Yennefer sees Kilian step out, a knife pressed flat against his throat. Behind him, the Nilfgaardian spy. He doesn’t look much older than Kilian, with a black beard that is far less well kept than most Nilfgaardian fashions as part of his disguise. Beyond the hard, steely eyes that normally operate with cut-throat apathy, though, Yennefer detects a hint of panic. Lines of stress and shadows beneath his eyes reveal a genuine fear. Far more than she’d expect to see in a spy.

When the spy sees the illusion, he stops. “Who are you? Another one of your Koviri mages?”

Of course, the illusion doesn’t answer. Yennefer’s lightning does instead.

Bursting open the door, Yennefer throws a lightning spell towards the spy. Instinctively dropping the knife, the spy scrambles to cast a shield spell. He manages – barely. But the force of the spell is still enough to knock him off his feet and into the wall. His megascope apparatus fall with a clatter, crystals sliding across the floor. The spy’s head hits against the wall, stunning him.

“Holy shit!” Kilian breathes out in relief. “I-I mean, that was most –”

“Tie him up.” Yennefer orders, interrupting him. She wants to waste no time. Likewise, she doesn’t want Kilian to realise just how improvised and unprepared in that encounter she was, so she keeps her voice brusque and demanding. “And gag him. He’s a mage, we can’t let him cast anymore spells.”

Despite her curt tone, he obediently does as she says, taking out some rope from his bag – he came prepared, it seems. As he ties up the spy, Yennefer steps gingerly around the fallen megascope. She can see one bag filled with notes, test equipment and some other devices she doesn't recognise, and another filled with dimeritium shackles, dimeritium bombs, and other weapons. It must be a very high grade dimeritium, a special alloy, to be so close to the megascopes without blowing up the crystals. A typical, high-quality Nilfgaardian grade equipment. 

At last, Yennefer finds the object she was looking for – the notebook Kilian mentioned. When she opens it, she sees various notes about crop yield – a disguise for the real information. Along the margins, she sees test results, including those from Triss’s experiments. “Well, it seems he’s been keeping a close eye on you.” She holds up the notebook, relieved for a way to reveal this without admitting she eavesdropped on Triss. “You were being spied on.”

To this accusation, the spy simply groans, but that’s cut short by Kilian gagging him. He stands up, face pale, no doubt thinking about the mutual race to find the blight’s cause, and the looming threat of war. “Oh gods…This is really bad. What exactly does he know?”

Yennefer bluntly passes him the notebook. “See for yourself. First thing’s first, we need to bring the spy to Triss.”

“I’ll come with you. Tricky bastard might try to escape again.” Kilian drags the spy to his feet and pushes him forwards, causing him to stumble.

“Fine. Be quick.”

They hurry furtively across the village to Triss’s tent, dragging the reluctant spy with them. Fortunately, he’s still too dazed to properly resist, allowing their passage to go smoothly unhindered. But it’s not from fear of being spotted by villagers that makes Yennefer hurry their pace – none of them are outside, now that sunset is in its prime and the sky gets ever darker. The old woman from earlier has closed her window, too. It’s to quell the urgency inside of her. She’s so close now to leaving this wretched village, and Triss, behind. Excitement sparks through her. If she waits any longer, she feels she might explode from impatience and years worth of bitterness. But now, she’s so close to leaving Triss behind again. Yennefer is too relieved to feel guilty.

All but bursting into the tent, Yennefer and Kilian push forwards the spy, where he stumbles to the ground and promptly passes out again. In front of him, in the process of putting away her megascope crystals, Triss stops and stares down at him in surprise. “What –”

“He’s a spy, Lady Merigold.” Kilian tells her gravely. “Lady Yennefer incapacitated him. He’s working for Nilfgaard.”

Triss’s reaction is similar to Kilian’s – her face drains of colour in horror. “What does he know? She asked immediately, eyes sparking with panic.

“These are his notes.” Yennefer passes Triss the notebook. She takes it, tearing through the pages, eyes scanning the lines frantically.

“Kilian,” she doesn’t take her eyes off the book, “go back to where you found him. Look for anymore notes, spells, and spy equipment. But be careful – he could have other agents helping him.”

“Yes, Lady Merigold.” He hurries from the tent, leaving Yennefer alone with Triss and the still disorientated spy.

This is it. Yennefer swallows. Adrenaline courses through her. She’s so close.

“Triss.” She says it calmly, evenly, but with an edge of firmness. Triss instantly looks up from the book.

“What is it?”

Yennefer keeps her head high, her gaze steady. But now she adds a hint of softness to her voice, to mask her anticipation. “Triss… We can't stay here now. As soon as Regis, Ameer and the others return from their experiments, we’re leaving. We can't – I _won't_ – be dragged into another political mess. Not when we’re already chasing down the Crone.” She pauses. “Do you understand?”

She surveys Triss’s face. There’s little surprise here – a slight disappointment as she lowers her gaze. “Of course I understand, Yenna. I wouldn’t force you to stay here. And leaving is probably a good idea; I have a terrible feeling things are about to get very messy.”

Yennefer nods her head, keeping her face blank as stone, trying to stop the relief from spilling out. “Thank you. I really need to make sure the horses are ready to go.”

As she turns to leave, though, Triss speaks up again.

“Wait.”

Yennefer stops. Dread quickly sinks its claws in her chest.

“I…” Triss sighs, face locked in a frown. “…You said Ciri and Geralt are in Skellige, right?”

Panic consumes her.

“…Yes. Why?”

“I…I didn’t want to do this. But now, if the Nilfgaardians are onto us…I need to kill the Crone and stop the blight, or else the Continent might descend into all-out war again. And to kill the Crone, I’ll need reinforcements. And for _that_ …I need a witness. I need Ciri or Geralt.”

All the relief Yennefer felt vanishes. Dries up, burns up, disappears completely, fading away like ashes in the wind. The panic doesn’t last long, though. Hot and sharp for a moment, even that falls away. Only a heaviness at the pit of her stomach, only a surety of what will happen next, a tired dread at the inevitability of her doom.

Her lies, her folly…None of it matters anymore. Without even meaning to, Triss has pushed her into a corner and forced a checkmate upon her.

No matter what Yennefer does, the truth will out. Even if Yennefer were to fly into a rage, forbid Triss from seeking out Geralt and Ciri, and refuse to explain herself, there’s a very strong chance that Triss will go ahead anyway – after all, the peace of the Northern Kingdoms is at risk. And so, the truth will be revealed. If Yennefer were to tell Triss to come to the orphanage with them, the Crone could easily reveal Geralt’s fate out of sheer spite, to try and turn them against each other, when they interrogate her. Keeping the secret at that stage will be almost impossible. And so, the truth will be revealed. If Yennefer acts in cowardice, tells Triss to do as she wishes and flees, Triss will go to Skellige. And so, the truth will be revealed, and it _will_ catch up to Yennefer at some point.

The only way she can prevent this from happening would be to tell Triss to seek out Ciri, and Ciri alone. But Yennefer won’t allow that. She’d condemn herself in a heart beat rather than allow Ciri to get caught up in politics again.

No matter how she looks at it, she’s trapped. Her efforts to keep Geralt’s fate a secret are in vain. The truth will be revealed, no matter what.

It was always going to happen. In fact, Yennefer had already promised herself and Zoltan that she’d tell the truth if Triss was cleared of any political conspiracies. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Triss hasn’t been cleared, and the mess is even worse than Yennefer first thought, but Yennefer can’t lie anymore either. And even if it was inevitable, that isn’t going to make it any less difficult.

Yennefer looks Triss in the eye, not letting her own gaze flinch or hide. She won’t be a coward, and she won’t let Ciri get sucked into this, either.

So she looks Triss in the eye, and speaks.

“You can’t bring Ciri forwards as a witness.” She says slowly. “The second she enters the political domain, even in Kovir, word will inevitably reach Nilfgaard. To their knowledge, she’s dead. If Emhyr finds out she’s not, then not only will he start chasing after her again, but he’ll most likely try to punish both myself and Geralt for lying to him.”

At this, Triss nods sombrely. “…I didn’t think of that. If it’s too dangerous for her, then I’ll have to ask Geralt.”

Here it is.

“You can’t.”

Confusion takes over Triss’s face. The very sight of it makes Yennefer’s heart twist in guilt. She has no idea what’s coming. “What do you mean?”

Yennefer still doesn’t avert her gaze. “…The reason we’re searching for Tye isn’t just because he released the crystal golem on Oxenfurt. The real reason is because he ordered an assassination attack on Geralt.”

Triss’s green eyes widen in shock. But Yennefer doesn’t give her a chance to ask questions, or even react.

“Geralt was poisoned. No matter what we did, we couldn’t cure him. So Ameer cast a spell called Scaradh. It extracted his soul, which was then placed inside his medallion. Geralt’s actual body is frozen in Skellige, to stop it from decaying.”

At her words, Triss’s face drains of all colour. Her eyes take on a glossy look from shock. Very slowly, she sits down. For a few minutes, she says nothing. Yennefer, too, says nothing. She simply waits for Triss’s reaction.

“…How long since he was poisoned?”

“22 days.”

“…Why…Why didn’t you tell me?” At last, Triss looks over to her, green eyes glittering with hurt.

“I knew something was going on here. My hunch was right – I know that Nilfgaard and Kovir are racing to find a biological weapon, to prevent the other from using it against them. You have to understand – if the medallion breaks, then Geralt’s soul is lost. It’s all over. I couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t put him in danger.”

Triss says nothing, still looking utterly shocked.

“So I needed to know what was going on. If I was too hasty in what I revealed, and Geralt got hurt, I’d never forgive myself.”

Triss looks at her once more. But now, her eyes are clouded in anger.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” She demands, voice quiet but seething.

“I told you why. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I did what I needed to do to keep him safe.”

Triss stands up, barely listening. “Do the others know?”

“Witold and Shani don’t. The others do.”

“You’re telling me Zoltan knows, but you didn’t tell me?” Triss’s voice is getting louder, her anger getting stronger.

“I told you –”

“Geralt is my friend!” Triss erupts, striding over to Yennefer. “And you didn’t tell me he’s been poisoned? That he’s – he’s _dying?!_ ”

Yennefer takes an even breath, heart aching in guilt. “…I’m sorry, Triss. But I needed to protect him. I’m sure you would’ve done the same. But, I am sorry.”

Triss turns away angrily, fists clenched. “You…How could you do this to me? How could you _betray_ me like this?”

In that moment, everything changes.

In that moment, the guilt that Yennefer feels evaporates. At those uttered words, contempt takes its place. Contempt, and bitterness, and sheer, pure rage.

Four years of silence. Four years of fighting back hurt, and betrayal, and all the feelings that make Yennefer hate herself. Four years of pushing it all away.

And now, it all comes flooding out, breaking through her walls, consuming everything like muddy water.

Now, Yennefer breaks.

It happens in the strangest way. For a moment, Yennefer – so outraged, so bewildered at the hypocrisy of it all – finds herself feeling…amused.

And she laughs.

At once, Triss turns back to her. The anger hasn’t dissipated, but there’s a look of caution to her eyes. Wariness. Perhaps without realising what she’s done, Triss senses she’s made a mistake.

Yennefer’s laugh fades. An ugly, beautiful anger quickly takes its place.

“Oh, Triss.” Her smile is malicious, and she doesn’t care. “You wish to talk about _betrayal_?”

Triss doesn’t say anything. Smart.

For so long, Yennefer has buried these feelings, forced them to wither and die. But now, she feeds them, grows them, allows them to blossom.

“Do you wish to talk about betrayal? I’d be more than happy to. How about we reminisce about the time you betrayed me, and Geralt, and Ciri, to the Lodge? How you were willing to let me die as a traitor, to let Geralt die believing I was a traitor and despising me, and let those bitches in your precious Lodge manipulate Ciri. Manipulate _my daughter_.”

Triss winces. She swallows. “Philippa…I was afraid of her. I couldn’t go against her –”

“You were a coward. You could have helped me in secret. But you didn’t. And instead, I spent a wonderful time in Vilgefortz’s dungeon being tortured.”

“That has nothing to do with this.” Triss blurts out quickly, her voice still sharp with anger. “You hid the fact that my friend is dying from me.”

Her words only cause Yennefer’s flames of rage to burn brighter. “Oh, you don’t get to sit on your high horse and criticise me after what you did.” Her voice is getting louder and louder. “Not after you hid me from Geralt. You know, I almost forgave you for your betrayal with the Lodge. When we fought in the Rivian pogrom together, I almost forgave you. And then the second I was gone, you betrayed me again. You lied to Geralt, exploited his amnesia, and didn’t tell him about his real partner so you could warm his bed instead.”

“I –”

“I hid information from you to protect Geralt. But you? You did it out of selfishness. Anything could’ve happened to me! I was in a Nilfgaardian prison, and my fate could’ve been even worse! And you didn’t care! As long as you had your way with Geralt, you didn’t care!”

“I thought you were dead!” Triss shouts. “I didn’t know –”

“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense!” Yennefer shouts back. “Geralt and I both disappeared at the same time. If he managed to return – after being stabbed in the gut with a pitchfork – then of course I could’ve returned too! And even if you did think I was dead, how is that more admirable? You hopped into bed with a widower, didn’t tell him about his lost love, didn’t even think to ask about what happened? That’s how you honour your friend? Well, that changes everything! How noble!”

“I was always going to tell him! I was helping him restore his memory!” Triss insists.

“Don’t lie to me, Triss.”

“It’s the truth!”

“You only helped when he’d already remembered and you dragged your heels the entire time! You took every opportunity to sabotage us, tried to call me toxic – you still wanted him for yourself, didn’t you?!”

“That’s not true! You weren’t there, you don’t know anything!”

“That’s right, I wasn’t there – because I was in a Nilfgaardian prison. I was in trouble! And you didn’t look for me, you didn’t tell him about me, you didn’t care! Only my connection to Ciri got me out! I could’ve died in there, or been executed, and Geralt would’ve never known because you thought sleeping with him was more important than looking for me! So don’t you dare talk to me about betrayal!” She’s incensed with rage, panting for breath, her mind completely lost with fury.

Triss takes a step back. She takes a deep breath, as if to calm herself. It clearly isn’t working.

“…You still had no right to hide that from me.”

“I had every right. I wanted to protect Geralt, so I did what I needed to do. Besides, why should I care about hurting your feelings? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t care about me, my feelings, or my safety. So why should I risk Geralt’s life to protect your feelings? I know you’d have done the same in my position.”

“Don’t make assumptions about me!” Triss snaps. “You don’t know anything about me or what I would do!”

“Oh, really? You’ve already proved you would!” Yennefer shouts back. “When you threw away my memory, didn’t care about my safety, all for the sake of an unrequited love you could otherwise never have!”

Unrequited love. Those words must hurt her. Triss grits her teeth. “You vindictive bitch. Don’t you dare talk about that.”

“It’s what you deserve, you manipulative little snake!”

They both throw their punches at the same time. 

Triss’s blow lands just above Yennefer’s eye. No doubt she was aiming lower, to make those violet eyes go black. Yennefer’s blow lands at Triss’s lip. She was aiming higher, to rattle those pretty teeth. But Yennefer barely feels the pain. Pure fury runs through her veins. Words that have been left unsaid for far too long. Now they relish in their freedom with anger and chaos.

Yennefer grabs Triss’s hair. Takes that lovely red hair in her fist and pulls, hard and sharp. “I should have said this years ago!”

Triss cries out, but she’s got rage of her own. Her hand lashes out at Yennefer’s face. Nails drag across her skin, raking the skin on her already bruised brow and cheek below her eye. Yennefer pulls harder. She feels some hair coming out in her hand, no doubt leaving blood behind on the scalp. Triss digs deeper. Yennefer feels blood dripping across her eye.

The rage burns through Yennefer, fuelling her like magic, and she welcomes it. Encourages it. Revels in it, in the feeling of her racing heart, sick with anger, her enraged breathing, Triss’s wince of pain, the spy’s muffled groaning, a high-pitched ringing, a shallow, unhealthy wheeze –

Wait.

Quickly, Yennefer lets go. Triss does the same. Their anger is pushed to one side, temporarily and urgently tucked away, and gives way to alarm. The high-pitched ringing - that's Triss's security alarm. And the breathing, that isn’t Kilian. Too old. It’s certainly not Shani, either. Someone else is here. Breathing quietly, but with a rattling wheeze that gives away their position. As she and Triss listen to the quiet breathing, the realisation hits them both.

But it hits them a moment too late.

A small sphere is rolled into the tent. Yennefer barely has time to throw herself out of the way before the sphere, a small metal ball, releases green fumes with a quiet hiss. Without meaning to, Yennefer breathes in – and inhales a herby concoction that makes her head spin. Her legs go limp, and she collapses to the ground. Strength leaves her. Darkness clouds her vision, filling her mind with fog.

Another Nilfgaardian spy, it has to be, Yennefer thinks dully. She should never have come here. This was a horrible, horrible mistake. The Nilfgaardians will execute them both.

But, as her mind clings desperately to consciousness, fighting off the sleep-inducing fumes, she is once again caught completely off guard.

For, though her head spins nauseatingly, Yennefer hears voices around her. Two, in fact.

“They proper knocked out?” A man. His Velen accent is thick and genuine.

“Yeah, I think so.” Another man, his voice somewhat muffled.

“’Think so’ ain’t good enough! You know how strong witches can be! Tie ‘em up, quickly.”

“Why don’t we just kill ‘em? If they’re so dangerous, why keep ‘em alive?”

“Because Casmir said so, that’s why. He wants to find out what they know.”

Casmir…Casmir, the leader of the village. Not Nilfgaardians. The villagers themselves are their attackers.

A whole new dread grips Yennefer’s heart, fresh and terrifying. The adrenaline that courses through her helps to further push back the delirium from the somniferous fumes. Carefully, she opens her eyes, forcing away the clouds of darkness.

Two villagers stand with their back to her. One is leaning over Triss, holding a pair of dimeritium shackles. Yennefer can’t see Triss, has no idea if her fellow sorceress has completely succumbed to the fumes or not. She was much closer to the blast, after all, whereas Yennefer managed to get far enough from the range of fumes to remain conscious. The other villager, a pair of dimeritium shackles at his own belt, has approached the Nilfgaardian spy, poking him with the end of a long and sharp scythe. He has a cloth around his nose and mouth, protecting him from the fumes.

Yennefer swallows. As the adrenaline burns through her, it provides her with strength. Laboriously, she sits up, gasping a spell under her breath. It takes all her effort to remain upright, to not slump immediately back on the floor. The villager with the scythe turns to her, eyes wide in surprise.

“Oh shit, she’s aw –” Is as far as he gets before the spark of lightning hits him in the chest. He falls backwards, hitting his head on one of the tent poles.

The other villager turns around at the noise. “Fuck!” He unsheathes a knife. Yennefer starts casting another spell, but her hand movements are too slow. The villager stands over her, knife raised upwards – only to be jolted with orange electricity, his body frozen in place.

Triss groans, still clutching the villager’s ankle, her eyes flickering as she battles to stay conscious. The villager is paralysed, gasping in pain as the orange electricity crackles along his body. But the spell begins to shimmer, fading with Triss’s own strength.  
Gritting her teeth, Yennefer crawls forwards, still too weak to stand up properly. She drags herself over to Triss’s side, and grabs her arm, forcing her own energy into Triss’s spell. The orange glow around the man strengthens, causing another moan of pain to escape his lips.

“You – bitch!” He gasps.

Now, Yennefer casts a new spell, pointed at the metal ball which released the fumes. The gale of wind she produces is pathetically small, but it’s enough to disperse the somniferous vapours away from them. With each gulp of clean air, Yennefer’s head clears more and more. Soon, she has enough strength to stand up – though she wobbles, grabbing onto the tent pole to keep her balance. With a grunt, she drags Triss to her feet, who clutches her head with one hand, still keeping the villager paralysed with the other.

“Gods…My head…” Triss coughs. “What the hell was that?”

“Who are you?” Yennefer demands, her voice far weaker than she wants it to be. “Why did you attack us?”

The villager says nothing, the veins in his temples pulsing in pain.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Triss looks warily down at the metal sphere.

Still, the villager says nothing. But his eyes give him away; he glances over at the unconscious spy.

Scowling, Yennefer walks over to the Nilfgaardian. Her gait is a little unsteady, but she manages to walk over. And then kick him in the stomach.

“Wake up.” She snaps, voice hoarse.

The Nilfgaardian spy groans, his voice muffled. His eyelids flicker open.

Yennefer kneels down and removes the gag. She points at the sphere, then at the villager’s dimeritium shackles. “Are those yours?”

The spy stares with wide eyes. His face has gone a horrible pale colour. “How – How did they get my –” He looks up at her urgently. “They are not with me. I swear.”

Yennefer gags him again, turning back to the villager. “Why did Casmir tell you to attack us?”

“I’m not tellin’ you nothin’!” The villager says through gritted teeth. When Triss squeezes her fist, a cry of pain escapes his lips. “Why wouldn’t we? Kovir and Nilfgaard coming here to lock us up and hang us for following He-Who-Listened, for carrying out the Ritual of Rebirth. We know you’re working together! Koviri bitch knew about the Ladies, she was getting close, so she called on her black and white wench to help!”

Yennefer listens to his erroneous rambling with cold, numb rage. “…Knock him out.” She demands.

Triss wordlessly squeezes her fist. The villager gargles in pain, then drops to the floor as the orange magic fades.

“They want to kill my companions and me.” Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose. As more of her energy returns, so does her rage. “Because they think we’re working with _you_.” She understands now, why the villagers paid so little attention to Ameer and Zoltan, despite their obvious races and Ameer’s Ofieri nationality. They were entirely focused on Triss instead – because they were terrified about her arresting them, ‘stopping their worship’, or whatever other nonsense they’ve made up in their heads.

“If that medallion breaks – I shouldn’t have stayed here. I _knew_ you were up to something. And so did the villagers. Now, we all might die, Geralt included. I should have left, the moment I suspected–”

“I didn’t know.” Triss’s voice sounds pained. “I couldn’t have known. And if you’d told me –”

“For the likes of _him_ to find out?” Yennefer points at the Nilfgaardian spy. “Or those villagers who have been spying on you? Villagers who will no doubt blame Geralt for his hand in the Crone’s death?”

Again, a tense silence falls between them. Brief, momentary, but still bursting with hurt and rage.

And then Yennefer tucks it away. Buries it all again in the depths of her mind. Smooths herself over, regains her composure, and allows brutally nonchalant pragmatism to kick in.

“I need to leave, myself and my travelling companions. But our possessions are at our lodgings, all the way across the village. I have little doubt that the other villagers don’t know about Casmir’s plan.” They’ve been acting very strangely, after all. “You should leave with Kilian, too. It’s not safe for any of us anymore.”

“You’re right.” Triss rubs her forehead. “I need to find Kilian. This mission is over.”

On the floor, the Nilfgaardian spy begins struggling again, his voice muffled through the gag.

Yennefer stares at him reproachfully. “As for what to do with him, you decide. He was spying on you, after all.”

Triss walks over to him, looking down warily. “I want to know something. Had I discovered your identity, or had we gotten into a fight, would you have killed me?”

The spy stares at her. Very quickly, he seems to realise there’s no point in lying. He nods.

“So would I.” Triss tells him. “We’re political enemies, after all. The peace of the northern kingdoms is at stake. What’s the sacrifice of one life for potentially thousands?”

The spy nods emptily. He hangs his head in defeat, a spark of fear in his eyes.

However, Triss rains no wrath down upon him. Instead, she kneels down and removes the gag.

He looks up in surprise. “What –”

“Right now, all that – none of it matters.” She licks her lips nervously. “Right now, it’s not Kovir against Nilfgaard. It’s us against those villagers. If we don’t work together, we’ll all die.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’m making a mistake, and I certainly don’t trust you. But the more help we have, the better our chances of survival. And I don’t want to die here. Do you?”

“No.”

“Then let’s work together.”

The spy nods gravely. “I can agree with that.”

“All right.” Yennefer paces back and forth as Triss unties the Nilfgaardian spy. “All right. We have to plan for the worst, that all the villagers are in on this scheme. We must get out without alerting anyone.” She glances at the two unconscious villagers on the ground – the one she struck with lightning is still alive, thanks to the weakness of her spell. If she’d hit him at full strength, she probably would’ve killed him. “What do we do with them?”

“Here.” Triss opens up a portal quickly. “It’ll send them a mile outside the village. That should be enough to stop them from alerting anyone that we’ve escaped.”

“That’s a mercy.” Yennefer says scathingly. “Considering what they planned to do to us.”

“We can’t kill them all. If Kovir were to be seen attacking a Temerian village in such a way, war could break out.” Triss explains heavily.

Yennefer bites back a curse. Of course. Another complication to this whole mess.

“Don’t underestimate them, though.” The spy warns them, grabbing one of the villagers and dragging him over to the portal, then throwing him haphazardly inside. “They had my sleeping-gas bomb and dimeritium shackles, so they probably have the dimeritium bombs, too.”

Yennefer almost laughs. A bitter, almost hysterical laugh. She catches herself at the last second. “Dimeritium bombs. Of course you had to bring dimeritium bombs. Thank you _ever_ so much, you wretched spy.”

“My name is Viktor.” The spy says testily.

“I don’t care.” She points at the other villager. “Throw him through as well.”

The spy frowns, but at Yennefer’s icy tone, does as she says without complaint. Yennefer continues her pacing up and down the tent. “We have to be quick. They mentioned Casmir, which means he’ll be waiting for them to deliver us to him. When we don’t arrive, he’ll get suspicious quickly. We need to teleport over to the lodgings, gather our belongings –”

She breaks off. Horror consumes her.

“Shani.” She breathes. “Shani went to go treat these awful villagers.”

Triss’s face pales. “Maybe she’s back at your lodgings.” She suggests half-heartedly. Surely these villagers wouldn’t attack a harmless medic who has actively helped them, who can’t fight back with weapons or magic? Yennefer doesn’t believe that hopeful wish, and clearly neither does Triss.

“Oh gods.” Yennefer clutches her temples. “I shouldn’t have come here. I never should have come here.”

Triss purses her lips, and begins throwing together essential belongings and resources into a bag. “…We need to move quickly. We’ll teleport to your lodgings, and see if she’s still there. If she’s not, then we’ll just have to look for her. But first, I need to get Kilian –”

She breaks off. Movement outside the tent catches their attention.

Instantly, Yennefer casts a ball of lightning. But Triss grabs her wrist, motioning her to extinguish the spell, and summons an orb of light energy instead. Far less lethal.

“Mark? Jakub?” A voice calls from outside. Another villager. “You done the job?”

Yennefer freezes. She shares a look of alarm with Triss. But before either can move, the spy speaks up.

“Aye, all done.” He calls, switching back to his fake Velen accent. “I’ll bring ‘em out in a minute.”

“Oh, you knocked ‘em out, then?” The voice gets closer. “Let me help you. Those Nilfgaardian weapons sure were handy, weren’t they? Casmir’ll be –”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before the ball of energy lands on his chest as he steps into the tent, exploding with a pulse of energy and instantly knocking him to the floor.

But they acted too quickly.

They failed to notice the burning torch in the villager’s hands. As he falls to the ground, it slips from his grasp, and lands at the base of the tarp. Within seconds, the flame takes to the tent, eating up the cloth ravenously.

The spy – Viktor – stares for a second at the spreading flames that grow alarmingly fast. “ _Sheisse_.” His curse speaks for everyone.

In a panic, Yennefer raises her hands to cast a gale, but Triss grabs her wrist again. “Leave it! There’s no time!”

“No, no, this is good.” Viktor suddenly declares. “This way, they can think we are dead. It will buy us more time. We can make this work.”

Frantically, Triss grabs her bag of supplies and opens up a portal. “This’ll take you to the lodgings. Go in, get ready to leave. I need to find Kilian.”

Fortunately, something this evening finally goes right. The need to find Kilian is negated as the fresh-faced mage calls into the tent. “Lady Merigold, all of the spy’s belongings have vanished. Do you think we should –”

When he enters and sees both Yennefer and Triss injured, the untied Nilfgaardian spy dragging an unconscious villager across the floor to toss him into another opened portal, and the quickly growing flames consuming the tent, he freezes.

“What – Why –” He points at Viktor, an odd choice to focus on. “Why is he untied?” The spy glares and ignores him, quickly shoving the last villager into a portal.

“We need to leave, Kilian. The villagers want to kill us.” Triss hands him the bag. “We’re going to the lodgings.”

Yennefer grabs him by the shoulders. “Did you see Shani?” She asks urgently, practically shaking him. “Have you seen her at all?”

“N-No. What –”

“No time to explain.” Yennefer's mind races She feels sick with worry. The best-case scenario, Shani is alive and safe at their lodgings, diligently packing away her things. Worst case scenario, she’s already dead. 

Before she left, she said she was going back to Sabina. That means she might be in the ealdorman’s house – Casmir’s house. The very worst place to be.

Around them, the smoke is getting thicker as the flames grow higher. Stifling a cough, Yennefer opens up a own portal to the lodgings. She doesn’t wait to see if the others are following, and runs through without another word.

The lack of smoke and the quietness from the absence of crackling flames is jarring. Being back safely in the lodgings, after the attack by the villagers, is even more jarring. The small room is just as she remembered leaving it. Behind her, Triss steps out from the portal, then Kilian and Viktor through a second one that appears next to her own. Then the portals swirl and close, though Viktor throws a fireball through one before it does, to accelerate the flames in the tent for the faked deaths. There. It’s as if all the chaos never happened.

Except for one detail. Inside the lodgings, Yennefer’s worst fears are confirmed. Shani is nowhere to be seen.

The bags are just as Yennefer left them. Nothing has been moved or disturbed. Shani never returned here.

Yennefer’s heart freezes in dread. Panic works its way up her throat.

“She’s not here?” Triss looks around the room, face taut.

Wordlessly, Yennefer leaves the room, searching through the rest of their loaned house. Nothing. It’s entirely empty apart from them.

“She’s not here.” She reports back to them, voice quiet with horror, as she returns to her room. But she doesn’t let panic overwhelm her. She needs to act, not fall to pieces.

“Kilian, grab the horses and our supplies, and get out of here, well away from the village.” She glances at Viktor. “Go with him. And don’t even think about trying to double-cross us. I’m really not in the mood.”

“I will not.” Viktor holds up his hands. “This is too serious.”

“If you see Regis and the others, inform them immediately. And whatever happens, don’t come back to the village.”

“What will you do?” Kilian asks, looking almost nervous to hear the answer.

“I’ll look for Shani. Now, go. Get the horses ready.” Yennefer demands. As they leave, she carefully looks out the window, towards the blazing tent. It’s burning spectacularly now. She can see the villagers gathering around, staring and whispering. Some of them point – but there’s no horror here, or panic. Just some strange, morbid fascination. Among them, Yennefer can’t see Shani. The figures are somewhat silhouetted against the flames, but Yennefer is confident Shani’s form isn’t among them.

As Kilian and Viktor begin grabbing the bags and bringing them outside to the horses, Yennefer remains watching the tent. More and more of the villagers are gathering around it. None of them panic, or run, or shout for survivors. They just stare.

“They’ve done something with Shani.” Yennefer whispers, her voice hoarse.

“We don’t know that. She might just be treating someone inside.” Triss suggests faintly.

Yennefer shakes her head. “No. She’s a medic, and the tent just set on fire. She’d surely be running out here to check everyone’s all right. The fact she’s not there means either she doesn’t know, or she physically can’t. Neither bodes well.” She turns abruptly from the window. “I should never have let her go. I need to find her.”

“I’ll come with you.” Triss immediately says. “They have those dimeritium bombs they stole from the spy; it’s too dangerous to go alone.”

Yennefer doesn’t argue. There’s no time to wait for Regis and Ameer to return – if Shani isn’t already dead, then every second they waste, her life is in danger.

Outside, Kilian and Viktor are busy loading the horses. They stand behind the house, away from the prying eyes of the villagers. Kilian looks over. “We should be able to slip into the forest without anyone noticing.”

“Good. You go ahead.” Triss tells him, pulling the hood of her cloak up. “If we get caught, run away. Don’t let them catch you, too.”

“But –”

“No buts.” Triss turns away. “Go.”

She doesn’t wait to see if he follows her orders, and neither does Yennefer. Instead, pulling up her own hood, Yennefer walks to the edge of the house, peering around the corner. It’s getting dark, but the fire from the tent lights up the village enough that Yennefer can’t see anyone near them.

“She said she was going to Casmir’s wife, Sabina.” Yennefer whispers, eyes falling on the distant house. “We should look there first.”

Their journey is fraught and tense. Each step they take in the growing darkness, even against the sound of the crackling bonfire, seems deafening. Her breath is obnoxiously loud, her movements clumsy and conspicuous. And though they travel on the outside of the village, behind the houses, Yennefer expects violence and shouts at any second.

They move with extreme caution. At the edge of every house, they peer around the corner with agonising slowness, checking for anyone looking in their direction. And when they run across that exposed gap – where all anyone would have to do is glance over – Yennefer’s heart pounds sickeningly. At one point, pressed up against the wall of a house, Yennefer hears movement from inside. She freezes, panic alighting inside her. The window is open – anyone could stick their head out, look around, and see them. She presses herself even closer to the wall. When a hand reaches out, her heart almost stops beating.

But, the hand simply grabs a shutter, pulling it shut. Moments later, the creak of a closing door sounds. Whoever it was has left. Yennefer tries not to sigh in relief.

Yennefer is a powerful sorceress. A very powerful sorceress, she might add. She shouldn’t be so afraid of random villagers. Individually, it wouldn’t be a problem. But Rivia taught her that, as a group, ‘random villagers’ can be terrifyingly strong, cruel, and relentless. Geralt was killed and Yennefer, too, almost struck down by such people – and those people didn’t have dimeritium bombs.

The screaming certainly isn’t helping Yennefer’s nerves, either.

It didn’t take long to start as Yennefer and Triss began their journey across the village. It started small, low in volume – murmurs of surprise, then incited chatter that grew louder and louder, before turning into shrieking and baying. But they’re not screams of pain. No one has been tossed into the flames. It’s a very different type of scream, one Yennefer has rarely heard before. They’re screams of…adoration. Excitement. Victory, celebration, vindictive joy. With the screams come cheers.

“Velen is saved!”

“The Koviri witch is dead!”

“The witches have gone back to the flames of hell!”

“We are saved!”

“Velen will rise again! We are saved!”

“Our brothers have laid down their lives to kill the witches! The Ladies shall exalt them as martyrs!”

No one mourns for those villagers who had gone in the tent to incapacitate Yennefer and Triss. Of course, no one else knows that those attackers in question have been deposited in some random field a few miles from Lurtch; they seem to be under the impression that they’ve perished in the flames. Yet none mourn for their lost comrades. They just cheer.

Yennefer tries her best to ignore them. It’s nigh impossible.

When they finally near Casmir’s house, Yennefer pauses. She holds her arm out to stop Triss from walking out ahead. From this spot, she can see the windows. But she can’t see Sabina staring blankly out of them, as she did when Yennefer spoke to her. Neither can she see any lit candles.

What does catch her attention, though, is the shed in the back of the garden.

There’s a man standing in front of it. Not Casmir – actually, she doesn’t know who it is. But the fact he’s standing there, a scythe in his hands, instead of joining the other cheering villagers makes Yennefer’s suspicious. What is he hiding?

Yennefer points wordlessly to him. Triss nods in acknowledgement. Very quietly, she casts the same spell she used on the villager who tried to blow them up.

They creep closer, moving with agonising slowness. Yennefer creates an illusion of a cloaked woman, just like at the windmill a lifetime ago. She sends the illusion running towards the forest that surrounds the village. When the man sees it, he adjusts the scythe in his hands and follows after it. When it stops suddenly in its tracks, he brings down his scythe on it savagely. The illusion disappears. Before the man can understand what’s happened, the ball of orange lightning hits his back, paralysing him. Triss squeezes her fist, and he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

Yennefer hurries over to the shed, barely refraining from sprinting. When she tries the door handle, it’s locked.

Now, she wates no time with subtlety. Instead, she blasts off the door handle with a spell and pushes it open.

Immediately in front of her lies Shani.

She’s unconscious. Her hands are tied behind her, but she looks generally unharmed, aside from her pallor.

All around her are statues.

Wooden statues stood on circular platforms in the same poses – arms kindly outstretched. All stacked on top of each other, piled from floor to ceiling, crammed in every corner. Woven baskets, hooded faces, ear garlands, pointed hats, an occasional masculine figure. He-Who-Listened, Whispess, Brewess, Weavess. From all four corners, their blank, wooden eyes stare down towards them. Like spectators in some twisted ritual, and Shani their sacrifice.

_…Outside each house, Yennefer can see divots of flattened grass in a circle, as if something that was placed there has now been removed and hidden. What? And why?..._

Now she knows.

Instantly, Yennefer kneels down beside Shani, checking her vitals. She still has a strong pulse, and she does seem genuinely unharmed.

“Is she all right?” Triss joins her. “Is she hurt?”

“No, she’s all right.” Yennefer props her up in the crook of her arm. Shani stirs, but doesn’t move. “We have to get her out of here. Open a portal to Newmoor, to the herbalist Jemima’s hut. She’ll be safe there.”

“You won’t be doing that.”

Yennefer freezes. Her mouth turns dry. Slowly, she looks around.

Casmir stands in the doorway. In one hand, he holds one of Viktor’s dimeritium bombs. In the other, a pair of his dimeritium shackles. At his belt, an axe has been fasted. His eyes, with the worry lines and dark, tired shadows, stare vehemently at them.

“You try to use your magic, I’ll throw this.” He holds up the bomb. “You know what this is, don’t you? I know too. That Nilfgaardian spy thought he was being clever. But we figured out quick that he was no true Temerian. He weren’t one of us. If you try to use magic, I’ll throw this bomb. No more magic. And I’ll cut you down. At the very least, I’ll cut her down easy.” He points at Shani.

“Let her go.” Yennefer says carefully. “She’s done nothing but try to help you, and this is how you repay her? She has nothing to do with this. She’s harmless.”

“True.” There’s no hint of remorse on his face. He doesn’t blink. “But she was getting close to figuring it out.”

Figuring it out? What does he mean? Casmir continues.

“Besides, she’ll make sure you do whatever I say.” He looks down at the dimeritium bomb in his hands. “That Nilfgaardian spy thought we were stupid. He really thought he could show up, pretend to be one of us, set up shop in our own windmill like we wouldn’t notice…But it was a good thing he did show, in the end. Now, we have all his weapons. And now, we have someone else to blame when your Koviri king finds out you and your harlot friend here are dead. Not before we have a chat and ask you some questions, though.”

“You’re making a mistake, Casmir.” Triss says cautiously. “We’re just here to identify the cause of the blight. It’s nothing to do with your worship –”

“Don’t lie to me. You think we didn’t notice you sneaking around? Sending secret messages? Asking around about our Ladies?” He snaps, and throws the dimeritium shackles onto the floor. “Put those on.”

They can’t fight him, not with Shani lying vulnerable on the floor. Reluctantly, Triss takes the shackles and Yennefer helps her put them on.

“Now you,” Casmir addresses Yennefer, “carry the medic.”

With some difficulty, Yennefer lifts up Shani in her arms. Since Yennefer isn’t particularly strong, and Shani is actually a little taller than her, it’s not the easiest task. There’s no way Yennefer would be able to run away with her, and she certainly can’t cast spells.

“Now what?” She asks with more calmness than she feels.

“Now,” Casmir shifts the axe in his hands, “we walk. And you’re going to answer my questions.”

With Triss in the lead, Casmir forces them out the shed, back into the cold air. Sunset is in its dying stages, a blaze of orange before darkness overtakes it. The chill should be settling among Yennefer’s bones, but her adrenaline and pounding heart keeps her blood warm.

Every inch of her instinct tells her to run, but she knows that’s a death wish. She can’t run, can’t cast spells. All she can do is walk in the direction Casmir tells her to, his axe never far from her. Her only solace is that Kilian, Viktor, the horses and supplies are nowhere to be seen; they managed to escape without being spotted.

“How many people are involved in this plan of yours?” Casmir asks, eyes darting nervously around the village. “Them lot who went off into the forest – they’re off to get back up, aren’t they? Tryin’ to rally the Nilfgaardians to come and slaughter our village, arrest us for our worship?”

“No. They’re just doing experiments.” Triss insists. “We’re not your enemies.”

Casmir ignores that statement. “Who else have you roped into your plan? How many people in Kovir know?”

“There’s no plan, but there are plenty of people in Kovir who know I’m here. If I die, they’ll get suspicious.” Triss warns him.

“Where are your notes?” Casmir continues, regardless. “All the messages you’ve sent, everything you’ve recorded. Where is it?”

“Burnt up.” Yennefer isn’t sure if this is entirely the truth – Triss might’ve saved some of her research – but she says it anyway. “If you want to read them, I’m afraid they’ll all be ashes now.”

“Not that you would’ve found anything, anyway. There’s no plan to arrest anyone here, Casmir.” Triss insists again, but Casmir scowls.

“Stop lying. Tell me, what did you have arranged? How were you planning on silencing us? What exactly do you know about the Ritual of Rebirth?”

“I’ve already told you, there is no plan, Casmir.” Triss repeats weakly. Her words aren’t making a difference. “You’re mistaken. And we don't know anything about the Ritual of Rebirth.”

Casmir glares at her. “If you don’t want to tell us, we have other ways to make you talk.”

It’s very clear where Casmir is bringing them. Even without the warmth and light of the tent as they come closer, she’d have guessed this is where he was taking them.

The entire village seems to have congregated around the burning tent, still cheering manically. None have made any move to put out the fire, even as it latches onto the adjacent houses. Neither does anyone try to run inside those houses that set alight, to retrieve their valuables and rescue their belongings. Yennefer isn’t sure if she’s relieved or horrified to spot a few children safely outside in the crowd, staring up at the fire with wide, curious eyes. Safe from the fire that eats away at the houses, but in the middle of this terrifying, manic mob.

One old man turns, and sees them approaching. He quickly grabs the shoulder of another villager, pointing to them. One after another, they turn to face Casmir, Yennefer and Triss, each falling silent. The cheers stop. All Yennefer can hear is the crackling fire.

Very slowly, they begin to crowd, gathering around the three of them. They form a circle, with Yennefer, Triss and Casmir in the centre. None scream, or shout, or curse. Only an occasional whisper, and round, focused eyes, half hidden in the darkness. Yennefer swallows, and forces her face to remain steady.

Casmir steps into the middle. His gaze travels across the circle eagerly, hungrily.

“Once again, these witches,” he points to Yennefer and Triss, “have tricked you. When the tent set on fire, you assumed they were dead. But _I_ knew their ways. I knew they’d have found some way to slither out of it. And I was right – they were lurking around my house, searching for evidence to lock us all away.”

“We were looking for Shani.” Yennefer interrupts him curtly. “The woman you kidnapped.”

Casmir ignores her. “This is what they’re like! Foreigners who want to hack up our land for a road, soldiers who come to steal and trample and rape our women, and now, witches who want to execute us for worshipping our poor, kind Ladies.”

“That’s not true! We’re trying to help you!” Triss tries to insist, to no avail.

“See how they lie! How they trick and deceive!” He shouts, and the crowd murmurs in agreement. “They’ve come to spit in the face of our suffering! Our children starve. Monsters prowl the night. Winter lurks around the corner, and with it, our death. Our Ladies are no longer here to protect us, and all of Velen dies with them.”

Troubled whispers in the crowd. No eyes leave them, though.

“But we have found a way to save ourselves!” Casmir shouts triumphantly. “We are not truly abandoned! He-Who-Listened has come back to guide us! He has shown us the way to salvation!”

The troubled whispers are turning into jubilant cheers again, while more and more houses set aflame. But among the crowd, Yennefer sees one who remains silent. Casmir’s wife, Sabina – she doesn’t cheer, or whisper. She stares at Casmir, face blank and ashen. Her eyes are like ice.

“With his help, under the light of the moon and the flames of his summit, He-Who-Listened will show us the way! We will save ourselves, and we will save Velen! And these witches,” he points at them, “wish to destroy us! They want to stop us from saving Velen! They’d rather let the land die!”

Shouts of anger arise from the crowd. Curses and accusations, waving fists and farm tools.

“Kill ‘em!” Someone shouts.

“Hang ‘em from the trees!” One woman shrieks.

“They’re stubborn witches, they are.” Casmir continues. “Refusin’ to tell us their plans to destroy our humble village. How should we make ‘em talk?”

“Throw them in the fire!” A man bellows.

“Gouge their eyes out!”

“Rip out their nails!”

“Chop off their hands!”

“Yes! Yes!” Casmir raises his hands in delight. “They’ll make fine sacrifices for our lovely Ladies! They want to stop our Ritual of Rebirth, but I say let's show 'em it for themselves!”

Their voices are alight with violent fervour. Burning more fiercely than the tent and houses. With great difficulty, Yennefer steadies herself. This is very, very bad. The mob looks as if it might tear them apart any second. But for some reason, the sight of Sabina – unflinching, unmoving, still staring at her husband – strengthens her resolve.

So she speaks up, as loud as she can, to cut across the raging crowd.

“Weavess isn’t dead.” She shouts.

Instantly, Casmir turns to her, face contorted with fury. “How do – don’t speak her name!”

“She’s alive, you know.” Yennefer continues resolutely. “She’s only pretending to be dead. She’s just ignoring you. In fact, she’s the one who sent this blight.”

“Lies!” Casmir roars. “All lies!”

“It’s the truth.” Yennefer isn’t sure how this might help, but she does know that the Crone wishes to be seen as ‘dead’, for whatever reason. Perhaps this will ruin her plans, or at least leave a dent in them. “The man I search for – an evil man named Tye from Kaedwen – he sought out the Crone. And she appeared before him to help him. Isn’t that terrible? She helped a foreigner, but ignored the cries of her own people?”

“You’re lying! The Ladies would never do that!”

“No? The Ladies have never been on your side. To them, you are measly worms to do their bidding. Every year on the sabbath, you’d send three youths up the mountain, who then went off into the world and never returned. Didn’t you ever think that was strange? That they never visited, or sent back money from their newly found fortunes?”

“’Twas the pact of their new happiness!” Casmir retorts.

“No. They were dead. The Ladies killed them and tricked you.”

“No! Stop lying!”

“I’m telling the truth and you know it.” Yennefer shouts. “Deep down, you’ve always known something was wrong. And you’ve always known the Ladies to be cruel mistresses, you’ve said it before yourself. It makes perfect sense, you just don’t want to believe it.”

Her words of reason have no impact on Casmir. “Lies!” But among the crowd, she hears a scattering of confusion. Not all of them can ignore her logic. She’s managed to sow the seeds of doubt.

But Casmir notices this, too. He frantically calls out into the crowd. “No! Don’t be swayed by her lies! We’ve suffered too much, _sacrificed_ too much, to lose faith now!” He turns wildly to his wife, who doesn’t even react. “Tell ‘em, Sabina! Your brother went up the mountain on the sabbath! And he was fine! You saw him yourself! Tell ‘em!”

For a moment, she just stares blankly. Then, very slowly, she begins to walk forwards.

“Yes! Come, my love! Tell ‘em!” He beckons her excitedly. At last, Sabina stands in the middle of the circle. She faces her husband, expression as empty as ever. Casmir smiles deliriously at her. “Go on. Tell ‘em.”

Very slightly, Sabina nods. Her voice is faint as she speaks. “Fine. I’ll tell ‘em.”

Then she stabs Casmir.

Yennefer didn’t see the butcher’s knife until it’s plunged in Casmir’s chest. And now, Sabina’s face finally changes. Her teeth clench, her face twists in anger, and tears fall from her eyes. “I’ll never forgive you.” She whispers.

Casmir’s reaction is one of shock. Blood drips from his mouth, and he sputters out a word, not comprehending what’s happened. “S-Sabina?”

With a cry, Sabina twists the knife and pushes it further. Casmir flails, the blade of his axe catching slightly on Sabina’s arm. A groan of pain escapes his lips. And then – nothing. He falls to the ground, knife still stuck in his chest, bleeding profusely, utterly dead.

In the crowd, someone screams. Others gasp and point, crying, “she killed Casmir!” Then another cry of pain – Yennefer sees a man drop dead, a knife sticking out his neck. The woman standing next to him – his wife perhaps, dress stained in blood – runs fearfully to the centre of the circle. Another grunt of pain; this time, a woman holds a heavy stone aloft, over the body of her much older husband, the back of whose skull is now bloodied. After dropping the stone she, too, runs to the centre of the circle. Immediately, she beings picking Triss’s shackles.

“Polly? Maryska?” Triss looks between them. The names are familiar.

_“She helped out Polly and Maryska when they were grievin’, too. She’s a kind lady, that Miss Merigold.”_

Sabina turns to the crowd, which has been too shocked to attack them. “Look at what we’ve done!” She cries, pointing to the fire. It has now consumed over half the houses in Lurtch in its growing hunger. “We’ve done this to ourselves!”

“No, ‘twas the witches!”

Sabina curls her fists. “No! It was _us_! We’re destroying ourselves! And for what? Why do we have _any_ loyalty to this land? What has it ever done for us?”

“The Ladies have protected us!” Someone shouts.

“No, the Ladies have been cruel! When the invaders came, did they help us? No! We have suffered and suffered, and given everything we have, and for what?”

“The land is dying without them!”

“I don’t care! Let it die!” She shouts, tears in her eyes. “This land has already taken everything from me! From all of us! Our brothers and sisters lie dead from war, our grandfathers and grandmothers lie shallow in their graves from blizzard and starvation! Our ancestors have long since been dug up and chewed on by monsters! This land is cursed! So let it die! But what have we done instead? We’ve destroyed ourselves! We’ve given up everything dear to us to try and save a land that’s not worth saving! You want to go back to normal, but you’ve forgotten that Velen’s ‘normal’ is suffering and death!”

The crowd is filled with murmurs, but Yennefer has no idea if they’re in favour of Sabina’s speech, or against it. Behind her, Triss’s shackles unlock and thud to the ground.

“Get ready to cast a shield.” Yennefer tells her in a low voice – she cannot cast one herself while still holding Shani.

“Let’s end this now! Please!” Sabina cries. But her pleas are falling on increasingly ignorant ears. The other villagers are becoming enraged again, falling back into Casmir’s rhetoric faster than wildfire.

“She murdered Casmir!”

“They’re working for the witches!”

“They murdered their husbands!”

Instantly, Yennefer sees the shift in temperament.

“Triss, now!” She shouts.

One of the villagers runs forwards, an axe clutched in his hands. Yennefer braces herself, realising Triss won’t raise the shield in time.

The man raises his axe, lifting it towards Sabina.

Then he stops. A ribbon of blood appears around his neck. The axe slips from his grip and he drops to the ground as blood spurts from his carotid.

A second later, Triss’s shield appears around them, safely protecting them and the three women from the villagers’ barrage of violence. Orange, filled with butterflies like before – but far weaker than at the well, even without Yennefer and Kilian’s help.

Another second later, Ameer appears. The blade of his antler-hilted knife is wet with blood, as if the dragon carved on the handle is shooting red flames. He does not ask what’s happening, why the villagers are attacking.

“Are you hurt?” He asks instead, almost shouting to be heard above the villagers.

Likewise, Yennefer doesn’t bother asking where everyone else is. “I’m fine. You need to get Shani and these women out of here.” They’re all unarmed, and will only obstruct Yennefer’s defensive spells. Besides, Triss’s shield is on the verge of breaking – she’s weakened by the dimeritium. When it goes, the women will be unprotected, and most likely ripped apart by the crowd.

Again, Ameer doesn’t ask why, and he doesn’t argue. Carefully taking Shani from her, and holding her with far more ease than Yennefer could, Ameer turns to the three women. “Take a hold of my cloak, and stay very close to me.” He instructs them quietly.

Sabina immediately does as he says. The other two women hesitate fearfully, but with some stony-faced encouragement from Sabina, they grab his cloak too.

Ameer looks back at Yennefer, face taut with anxiety. “Be careful.”

Then he and the women vanish. Only a sudden, slim patch of green magic in the shield shows their exit as Ameer helps them pass through it. Too late, Yennefer realises she should’ve told him not to return, not to come back and help her. But she has no time to worry about it, for the shield is beginning to crack.

Yennefer stands with her back to Triss, readying a ball of lightning in her hands. “We need to kill them, Triss.”

“We can’t!” Triss calls from behind her. “Or we might spark war! Can’t you teleport us away? I’m still too weak from the shackles, I might kill us.”

A villager tries to attack the shield, crashing a hammer down on it. The shield cracks again.

“Shit!” Yennefer abandons her attacking spell and raises her hands, strengthening the shield. It’s not nearly as powerful as she’d like; she still hasn’t fully recovered from the hydromancy and the sleeping-gas. “I can’t just teleport away and abandon the others – they must be nearby, which means they could get killed!”

The villager hits against the shield with his hammer, and Yennefer feels the shock waves travelling up her arms. She grits her teeth as another joins in with a scythe, and another with a mallet. The crowd gains more bloodthirsty confidence, throwing stones against the shield, or beating against it with their bare fists. Yennefer’s arms feel heavy. Sweat collects on her brow. The village burns all around them, and as she stares out at the hateful, rabid eyes around her, she feels the dark terror of Rivia all over again.

“Triss, we have to cast the hailstorm!” She shouts, voice strained. “We don’t have a choice!”

The man with the hammer is doing the most damage. Each blow against the shield sends a jolt of pain through Yennefer’s mind. It’s all she can do to keep her arms steady. The man raises the hammer once more – and an arrow lodges itself through his skull.

He drops to the ground, and two more men beside him die in similar fashions – an arrow through the neck, and one that exits out through an eyeball. Somewhere near the back of the crowd, Yennefer hears a scream.

“A wolf! A wolf! Look out!” Shortly after, a scream of pain, snarling, gnashing of teeth and tearing of flesh.

The wolf attack is more effective than any of their spells, or threats, or their words of logic. Some people outright flee, and the crowd is messily dispersed.

“Wolf attack! Get the long bow!”

“Help! Help!”

“There’s a whole pack of ‘em!”

The crowd spreads and thins enough so that Yennefer can see through it more easily. Standing with her hackles raised, muzzle snarling, fur soaked with blood, is Juru. In the shadows, Yennefer catches glimpses of other wolves, eyes glowing in the dark. But she knows these must be illusions, for no real wolf aside from Juru would get this close to such large fires. Besides, their behaviour is unnatural – they’re running in small circles repetitively, barking and snarling, but not doing much else. Ameer cast these before running away with the women.

Next to Juru are Witold, Zoltan, Regis and a she-elf that Yennefer doesn’t recognise. Witold’s sword is red with gore already, and he cuts down a villager that tries to attack him with an axe. When another comes at him from behind with a scythe, he manages to dodge with impressively fast speed. In her stress and fatigue, Yennefer swears she almost saw some strange smoke around him. It must just be from the fire, which is growing ever stronger. They need to get out of here, before it grows and consumes them all.

Next to him, Zoltan is frantically hacking at anyone who comes too close to him, shouting and yelling incoherent threats at the top of his lungs. The she-elf dispatches their attackers with her bow and arrows, her aim deadly and swift. Juru darts around, snapping and growling, her very presence causing some villagers to retreat. Quickly, the scattered crowd converges warily around these new arrivals – watching, but too afraid to go any closer.

Only Regis has yet to attack a villager. His eyes have only been focused on Yennefer. When the crowd disperses, he begins running towards her. “Yennefer! Are you hurt?”

Around her, the crowd has thinned and stopped attacking the shield, too focused on the wolves and these new foes. Exhausted, Yennefer drops the shield; Triss does the same, and it quickly flickers from view.

“Regis, get everyone out of here!” She shouts to him.

Then one of the villagers steps forwards.

Yennefer is far too exhausted to notice in time, let alone react. Regis, too, is entirely focused on Yennefer. The villager steps forwards, a pitchfork in his hands. With it, he stabs Regis through the back.

It’s a devastating blow, the three prongs cutting straight through Regis’s body and out the other side. Blood splatters across Yennefer’s clothes from the wound. A sickening parallel to Geralt in Rivia. Yennefer hears Witold shout in shock – “Regis! No!”

Regis looks surprised. He winces, putting his hand to his chest and examining the blood that stains his fingers. More drips from his mouth, which he wipes away nonchalantly.

The villager who stabbed him cheers, pulling out the pitchfork with a gruesome ‘schlick’ and brandishing the weapon in the air. His celebration quickly stops when Regis turns bluntly to face him.

The crowd whispers in confusion the longer Regis remains standing, blinking, breathing. The man, face screwed in angry bewilderment, lashes out with the pitchfork again.

When he pierces Regis’s chest, Regis doesn’t even blink. Instead, he snatches the tool from his hands. The man stumbles backwards, face peaked with horror, as Regis takes the pitchfork in his hands – and snaps it in two.

The entire crowd falls silent now. All stare at Regis in terror.

Ahead of her, Yennefer sees that Witold’s reaction is no exception. He stares, aghast, eyes wide with shock. His sword hangs limply at his side. The she-elf notches another arrow in her bow, watching in bewilderment.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Hers is the only spoken acknowledgement of what’s happening. And when Yennefer looks behind herself, she sees Triss, too, overwhelmed with shock and a hint of fear, blinking hard as if she doesn’t trust the image in front of her to be real.

Shit. Ameer isn’t here right now. No one can hide Regis’s true nature.

Regis himself reacts calmly. He wipes the blood from his clothes as best as he can, as if it were an unfortunate spillage at a bar. With the back of his hand, he wipes his bloodied lips, then politely shields his mouth as he spits red-coloured saliva onto the ground.

“You’re…You’re a monster!” Someone shouts from the crowd.

Slowly, Regis looks across the mob, turning his head as his gaze sweeps over them. Now, Yennefer can see that his eyes, black as coal, are shining animalistically, catching the light of the flames and seeming to glow.

Then he smiles. It’s a mocking, cruel smile, and Yennefer is taken aback by it. Such a smile looks entirely out of place on Regis’s face, strange and uncharacteristic. More than that, he smiles in such a way that his teeth – his fangs, covered in his own blood – are clearly visible.

The entire crowd gasps in fright, some of them even shrieking. “A monster!” Someone screams.

Regis looks at them contemptuously, again an emotion she rarely sees from him. When he speaks, his voice is harsh with irritation and, quite frankly, fury.

“Do what you want with me.” He calls into the crowd. “Behead me, if you wish. Chop me into pieces. I’ll survive. I’ve survived it before, after all. Throw me into the flames if you want. It won’t harm me. Cut me down with your scythes and your axes.”

No one moves.

“Go on.” He holds his arms out wide. “Try it.”

Still no one moves.

“Good. That’s very smart of you.” Underneath his patronising tone, his anger shines through sharply. “Now, this is what you’re going to do. You’re going to stand aside, lower your weapons, and let us leave this village. I dislike killing people. Truly, I do. But I dislike my friends being threatened even more. So if you try to harm any of my companions, the ground will become so soaked with your blood that even the grass will drown.”

His words startle Yennefer, so saturated with barely restrained violence. Had anyone else said it, she wouldn’t care, chalk it up to empty threats and arrogant bragging. But she knows, if he wanted to, he could make this fact a reality. Very easily. And he’s angry. They were all almost killed, after all. Only knowing him, knowing his otherwise docile and friendly nature, lessens the unease his words bring. 

His threat is successful, though. The villagers hastily move aside, eyes wide with fear and confusion at this immortal man. Where Geralt bled out on Rivia’s streets, Yennefer perishing in her attempt to revive him, Regis moves confidently and effortlessly. The blood is already dry on his clothes. Not a single hint of pain on his face shows, and his ease terrifies the crowd into paralysis. None try to raise their weapons again.

Regis looks back, gesturing to Yennefer. She hurries towards him. Triss does, too, though with a moment of hesitation. None of the villagers try to attack them this time.

“Is anyone hurt?” Yennefer asks, her voice low, when they re-join Witold, Zoltan, the she-elf and Juru. The villagers are still staring, frozen in horror.

“No.” Regis replies, eyes flickering between them. “Not a scratch.”

“Did you find Kilian and a Nilfgaardian man?”

Witold and the she-elf remain speechless in shock, so it’s Zoltan who answers. “Aye, they’ve got the horses. They’re safe.”

“Good. We should go.” It’s stating the obvious, but Yennefer says it anyway. Trying to insert some normalcy into the horror and trauma of the night. It’s very clear that no one knows how to react. Witold and the she-elf still reeling from the discovery of Regis’s immortality, the others shaken by the bloodshed and violence, all while the villagers stare unwaveringly at them. No one knows what to say.

So no one says anything. They simply walk away.

Out of Lurtch, away from the houses that are now almost entirely in flame, from the still-paralysed villagers who stare after them. No one tries to follow them or attack them. Yet Yennefer’s heart begins racing again – in the unexpected calmness, the reality of what just happened has the chance to fully sink in. Yennefer almost died there. It was almost Rivia all over again. Leaving here now, alive and breathing, doesn’t even feel real when she realises how close to death she was. So, her heart begins to pound frantically, and adrenaline courses through her.

And this? This wasn’t even the worst-case scenario. She survived, the others survived. But what if she'd succumbed to those somniferous fumes in the tent? She would have knocked unconscious and most likely tortured, then executed, by Casmir. Or what if Ameer hadn’t gone into the forests to experiment, away from the villagers’ deadly plot? He could have been killed. Geralt would have died too. And then Yennefer would have died at the hands of an angry Fox Mother.

Yennefer looks over her shoulder at what remains of Lurtch. The fire has reached the windmill, its blades still turning slowly as it blazes, smoke billowing seamlessly into the dark clouds above them. Now, she hears the villagers again. But instead of cheers, she hears wailing of grief and frantic shouts to put out the fires. She glances over at Triss. Her face is ashen, cast in the shadow of the flames behind her, eyes blank with shock.

Yennefer almost died. All of her friends, and the soul of her lover, could have perished because of this senseless plot. They could have perished because Yennefer allowed herself to get mixed up with Triss’s political mission. They could have perished because of someone who Yennefer can’t even call a friend anymore.

She never should have come here. She never should have decided to work alongside Triss. This was a mistake. And she won’t make it again.

So she vows to herself, with bitter vehemence, to stay far away from Triss Merigold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, I sure hope that the fact Yennefer and Triss's argument hasn't been properly resolved isn't going to cause any inner turmoil for Yennefer now!!!1!1! That would really suck for her!!  
> Also, the part where Yennefer remembered the strange divots of flattened grass outside the villagers' houses (which were caused by the circular bases of the statues that had been hidden) and the memory of Casmir mentioning how Triss helped two other women in the village through their grief after their children died, were from Chapter 8 in case you couldn't remember!  
> One final fun fact: the intro I use must've been changed in an update in the game at some point, because when I've looked up clips of the conversation with more recent dates, it's changed from "Ah. So it is about Triss./Yes, our dear darling Triss..." to "didn't have to take it out on the poor furniture./Would you prefer me take it out some other way?" I don't know why they changed this, but I just thought it was interesting! I wonder what other dialogue they've changed!


End file.
